The Chrono Cross
by Java Bum
Summary: This is an adaptation to the game Chrono Cross, the sequel to the acclaimed Chrono Trigger.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Beads of Faith**

_I hear you. Shhh…I hear you. I'm coming._

_I'm coming._

Darkness swirled in the black of space; when light did exist, it was in rivets of reddish brown, like that of dried blood. It was the only sign of passage which flowed at a great speed. Deep within the pain, a form of solitude and calm ebbed inside as if trying to surface, but not want out. No, it was in this sheer agony that there was a peace that wanted to ease the suffering.

_Wait. Hold on, child. I'm coming._

_I'm coming._

Hope?

Incoherent thoughts strived to come to fruition as a burning torrent of pain tore apart any concept of reality. Crying was the only release next to death, something which would be welcomed. No one should suffer in such a way. To focus on what was actually physical was nearly impossible for a mind unaccustomed to the rigorous torture of true anguish as opposed to what was as surreal as this girl-child's voice. Wetness; unwillingly rocked and swayed; shouts lost in the screaming winds.

Hope?

_Shhh, child; I'm here._

There was dryness, followed by a conglomeration of blinding lights, and they both made the world spin before vision fuzzed and pulsed. With it the pain drained away; and then blessed sweet nothingness took over like a sigh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Beginning's End**

Sunlight peeked through the slit between the blinds and windowsill, bringing Serge slowly—but inevitably—out of sleep. He groaned and swung his legs over the edge of the straw bed. Another moan followed as he placed his face in his hands. Now the sounds of the morning were starting to make sense to him. He listened to seagulls crying, people bustling about, and youthful laughter in the distance.

Serge got up and walked over to pull the blinds down and then ease them up. Light spilled into the scant room. He looked out over the ocean and stretched. Leaning over his windowsill, he squinted, eyeing the island out in the distance. On the horizon, he could see the faded blue of Water Dragon Isle that was only visible during a few precious moments of the day. This was what he loved most about his room; not only the ocean, but the sight of renown islands.

Almost methodically, he went to the shelves built out of crates in the corner of his room, pulled a black t-shirt off of the top shelf and pulled it over his olive skin. Down in a crate at the bottom of the makeshift dresser, Serge grabbed a pair of socks and went back to his bed, picking up his scattered steel-toed boots in the process. As he finished pulling on his second boot, he caught a glimpse of one of his gloves, poking its elusive fingers at the foot of his bed. Leaning over, he moved them from the floorboards onto his bed, as if organizing his belongings.

While Serge walked out of his room and headed for the door, waving to his mother in the process.

"Good morn', sleep-mongrel," she said, smiling at him.

He waved his hand again, but this time it was in dismissal. "Ih, mum, ain't even noon yet."

"Aye, but ye' had plans with Leena, dinna?" she stated more than asked as she paused in her cleaning to look squarely at her son.

As if realization dawned, Serge stopped, hand on the doorjamb. He looked over his shoulder at his mother and smirked. "An' what makes ye' think dat I ain't make her wait on purpose?"

She didn't believe a word of it. "She be at duh pier, watchin' the li'l ones."

Rolling his eyes, Serge said, "'Bye, mum!"

"Ain't ye' gonna brush yer hair?" he heard his mother say as he headed out into the sunlight, leaving the question unanswered.

A couple of children of about the age of seven came running up towards Serge as he made his way towards the ocean.

"Hey, Serge! Ye' gun huntin'?" True enthusiasm and awe filled their voices in a way that only the innocence of children could have done. He deflected their inquiries with a shrug, picking up his pace as he got to the dock.

He saw Leena standing at the end of the L-shaped pier. She was dressed in a simple fawn-colored wrap that danced with her coppery hair in the breeze. A child in the water greeted Serge, which attracted her attention. She pursed her lips and scowled at him, freckles complimenting large green eyes that made the look both menacing and adorable. As naturally as she donned the glare, he put on an apologetic smile.

Her defenses broke down as she sighed heavily, like a wife with her husband when he had done something irrational, but she'd forgive him nonetheless. "Well, I be stuck 'ere fer duh time bein'." She looked back out at the children swimming. "If ye' woulda' woke up earlier we coulda' been down at Lizard Rock, gettin' Komodo scales," she paused and sighed for effect. "But now yer gun go by yerself."

Before Serge could answer, one of the boys in the water cried out, "Hey, hey, look at me! Look what I cun do!" He flopped in the water in a backwards dive that seemed to only splash more water around.

Leena called out: "That's 'mazin'! Just dun swim too far out!"

She smiled thoughtfully at the boy as he waved her off. She spoke to Serge without looking at him, "Remem' when we were dat young? Not a care in duh world?" Her smile widened. "Ah, how I miss dem…those endless summer days."

He placed a hand on the small of her back affectionately. He looked out at the bulbous end of the peninsula in the distance. From this far, it looked like Lizard Rock—the neck of the peninsula—was completely submerged. She turned her face up to his and said, "Wait fer me at Opassa Beach."

Serge drew away, slipping his hand into hers and giving it a gentle squeeze which she returned. Her eyes followed him as he turned and strode off down the dock.

Back at home, he retrieved the things he would need that day. The element-bracer and Swallow were gifts from his long-dead father. The bracer was his when he went out hunting and held a scant eight elements. It was weathered and was more sentimental to Serge than anything else, since he didn't own any elements.

The Swallow was carved and made by his father when Serge was just old enough to begin basic training for village defense. The Sea Swallow, as his father called it, said that it would pass into Serge's possession when he made it to personal, advanced combat training. It was a two-ended weapon with spooned blades at either end of a somewhat sinuous shaft, and it was leaning haphazardly against the wall; something that would really irritate the weapon's master—and chief—of the village.

Donning his gloves and bracer and red bandanna, he then put on his scale mail vest. It fit like a short tunic, the scales the color of a foggy morning. Snatching up his Swallow, he cradled it in the crook of his left arm as he unwound a thick strap of leather about the shaft. He busied himself with the putting on the strap—that went from his left shoulder to his right hip—and adjusting it until the oyster-shell-clamp was at the center of his back. Finally, he swung the Swallow behind him and clipped it in place.

It was a glorious day. The sun was climbing higher into the cloudless blue sky. Seagulls and their distant, smaller kin could be heard chirping and hawking. A light breeze ruffled his bangs that had escaped his bandanna. The smell of sea salt was not as strong as it was on the beach itself, but it mingled wondrously with the scents of fruits and grass and trees. It brought a large smile with it, and Serge moved off at a brisk pace, invigorated by the aromas.

It was well into the noon hour as the grassy walkways and trees gave way to the stony and rose colors of rock and coral. Lizard rock was the only place on the El Nino Archipelago that Komodo Dragons were found. The scales—which were made into fine prismatic jewelry—as well as fishing were the two primary trades of Arni village, which made it known to places like Termina just north of Fossil Valley, and even Porre located on the mainland.

Serge took in the sight of scattered outcroppings of rocks and coral; underwater vegetation and barnacles grew along the edges of the protrusions, some solidified by the sun and lack of water. Just a few years ago, much of Lizard Rock was submerged under water, and he remembered having to swim to Opassa Island with Leena. They would spend all day there on the western beach and then swim back in the evening. Even though the water was treacherous to swim in during sunlight, it was far worse when either the darkness or failing light hindered a swimmer's judgment. The corals were twisting vines that had porous cavities, capable of snagging an unwary person's feet, while the rocks had sharp curves and points that were eroded by the awkward tide pools. To children that was part of the adventure.

Even though there was less water now, and pathways could be discerned, the way was no less dangerous. Sometimes the sand was misleading, seemingly capable of holding a person's weight but causing the leg to get jammed in a suction of water and sand, or the dried coral that looked more like feathery bushes of yellows, reds, and purples, could cut with just a graze. There were water scorpions and the Komodo Dragons; while skittish they could deliver a very painful bite that had led to amputations before.

Serge moved along lithely as he jumped between rocks that stuck out of the water. When he made it to a thin strip of sand-infested coral, he jogged forward a couple of paces before leaping up onto one of the larger boulder protrusions, grasping a coral branch and hoisting himself up. His gloves offered protection as he shimmied to the left and secured his footing. Climbing up over the ledge, he crouched down, blue eyes sliding over the other side of the boulder before looking out at the next chunk of exposed earth some distance away.

With his open palm used as a balancing weight, Serge slid down the water-slick surface. When he hit the lip near the bottom, he boosted off and landed on a rock, his left foot slipping into the water. He looked up again and viewed his surroundings. He was starting to feel the rush of adrenaline as his mind took in the sights, formulating not only a path through Lizard Rock but a scheme on how to catch an unlucky Komodo.

As he approached the next exposed stone, he gripped the tiny cave-like holes and climbed up, maneuvering to avoid being snagged by dense foliage near the top. When he crested the hill, he unclipped his Swallow and lowered it to the ground. Next thing that he did was search for small stones. With plenty to choose from, he handpicked a few of the smoother, ovular ones and settled into his hiding place. This outcropping was more like an island, having two cresting hills and a small pool in the center; it was also where he had seen the lizards gather before. So here was where he waited.

The sun began to creep across the sky, darkening from a blinding white to a dull yellow until it reached a burnt orange. Leena would be coming soon, he surmised, still eyeing the pool and its surrounding areas. And he had to not only capture one, but skin it before he was done. The problem with hunting Komodo Dragons was that the lizards were notoriously quick and intelligent, which made them difficult to catch by chase, and harder to capture in a trap when the terrain was in their favor. But Serge was one of simple means, and that alone was his advantage; returning to basics had always been a belief of his, and today, like before, he would prove it.

After a short while, the lizards began to come out as the heat of the day began to dissipate. A few were scrounging around the pools and potholes in search of food. Judging the distance too great, Serge remained motionless, watching them as they ate.

They were large birdlike lizards that walked on hind legs and had thin arms where wings would be. Long, bright red feathers protruded from the top of their golden heads like ears that contrasted with their beaklike snouts, and with a seamless transition, their scales went from green to gold to red, and finally to a rich blue at their tails.

One came to the edge of the pool on Serge's left side, half-submerging itself in the water. The timing couldn't have been better, because the tide would roll out shortly and the amount of running room for the lizards would be too great. The lizard began to dunk its head into the water, and shake it vigorously when it reemerged. A few culled as they communicated with one another. Very slowly, he rose up alongside a bush of rose-colored bone. If one saw him, it'd warn the others.

Cocking his arm back and taking aim, Serge let the rock fly. The lizard immediately straightened up at the sound of the rock's passage through the air, but it was in vain as the spinning rock hit it directly in its right eye with a resounding crack. On instinct it was up and running, splashing through the water until it made it onto the sand, trying to flap its useless arms in an attempt to lift itself from the pool. All the other Komodo Dragons vanished from sight, leaving the injured one to fend for itself.

Serge was up the instant the rock hit its target, Swallow in hand. He leapt over some coral outcroppings and landed in the sand. Instead of trying to pull his feet out, he pushed them in, came to one hand, and pushed forward, forcing the sand to break up under the pressure. The lizard was moving on nerves alone as it went along the outer rim of a hilly boulder. Instead of chasing it around, the young man went up the hill and slid down the other side. He could make out the Komodo as it bounced off of rock and coral, steering clear of the water. Jumping off the ledge of rock, Serge overshot the lizard, but spun around with his Swallow and smacked it on its side. The force of the blow took the thing to the ground, and with the momentum, Serge spun the Swallow around and up and then down on its neck, severing the head cleanly.

As he pulled a rag out of his pocket to wipe the blood off of his Swallow, Serge placed a foot on the twitching body of the lizard. While waiting for the nervous system to die, Serge listened to the distant cries of the other lizards, either having already forgotten about the ambush or nowhere near the scene of the crime. Serge smirked, spinning the Swallow around to clip it to his back. By the time he set about skinning the birdlike lizard, it had stopped its spasms and the blood stopped spurting from the arteries in its neck.

Leaning down, Serge drew his small hunting knife that was made from a shark's tooth. The process of skinning the lizard was done with deft efficiency, carving away the hide between the scales, making sure that he didn't damage any more of the scales than he had to. With no need for the arms, neck, or the legs, he cut around them. The task of slicing down its sides complete, he began at the belly of the corpse, lifting up the flap he made and shaving meat from hide. When he concluded with the front, he pulled the neck through and flipped the body over, setting about proceeding with the backside.

When he reached one arm, he repeated the process of pulling the appendage through the hole made, and again as he worked the other side of the back. The tricky part was the spine. Serge had to be careful not to damage the scales here because they were some of the most colorful and sturdy of all on the body. So what he did was push the meat away up to the bony spine all the way down both sides, and then peeled the hide off by pressing two fingers firmly on the spine and rolling his knuckles against the underside of the scaly skin. He'd shimmy his fingertips further along the spine, repeating the process until he reached the last vertebrae before the tip of the tail.

Serge grabbed his discarded bloody to the rag sand and rose, heading over to the water to wash his prize clean of blood. The clear seawater ran pink as he scrubbed, periodically checking his handiwork. Afterwards he washed his gloves and rag.

Serge made his way towards the beach that he and Leena had shared for years, a small little alcove of beach that curved into rock on the northern side and coral bedrock to the south. The sunset was beautiful as he reached his destination, but Leena was nowhere to be found. Maybe she had other things to do. Surely there was somebody else that could watch after the kids for just a short while. He unclipped his Swallow and stabbed its end into the sand, making it stand upright.

As he admired the panoramic view of ocean dotted with islands off the coast, his chest ached, wanting only to spend this magnificent moment with her. Colors began to spread from horizon, dancing with the sparkles of light off the water. Autumn tones spilled across the surface of the sea, like amber and cinnabar in liquid form. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting his other senses go free.

He felt slender arms slip around his midriff, tightening as a chin rested on his shoulder. "Beau'ful, ain't it? Been a long time since we las' came."

Serge didn't open his eyes as he smiled; he made a sound in the back of his throat, savoring the touch of her against him. It had always been here that they could let their feelings for each other show, when in Arni, they had to be cautious of how they acted around each other. It was here that they had held hands as pre-adolescents, had childish dreams of being married only because they thought they would only have to live with each other, and it was here that they had shared their first kiss, as well as the more amorous, passionate ones that followed. The budding of old desires and emotions was why he was unable to reply adequately. He placed his free hand on hers.

"So, did ye' get me scales?" she asked playfully, putting an edge to her tone that suggested disappointment if he answered in the negative.

The smile turned into a grin as he tipped his head in the direction of the hide a few feet away. "Oh, gods," he heard her gasp; she had wanted a few scales but he delivered an entire set. "So many!" It was whispered.

He laughed softly and opened his eyes. "Aye. Wit' beauty deserved; ye' shoul' 'ave all o' it, not jus' a piece."

Leena squeezed his back and muttered, "Charmer…thank ye'. Thank ye'."

For a moment they just held each other watching the sun sink closer to the horizon. The molten amethyst went ruby and jade on the water, with tiny diamonds by the thousands twinkling on the surface. A view that eventually would be mirrored in the sky above.

"Duh sea nevuh changes, does it? Tide roll in an' out since before we be born. Prolly 'eard many things…seen many things," she said, her hands becoming brave as they caressed his abdomen through the scales of his vest.

Serge smiled a bit, watching the ocean. "Pity it'll keep on goin' long after we be gone…jus' as silent as evuh."

She separated herself from him and came to his adjacent side. Leena pulled her skirt forward and she sat down. "Remem' we use-tuh sit 'n' talk like dis when we were kids? Was always pretty 'ere." She took a deep breath and held it, a soft agreeing sound coming from her throat. In a hushed voice, she said a short while later, almost to herself, "Jus' duh two o' us…so many promises made wit' jus' duh sea as witness. But one always stays wit' me; one dat really stands out in me mind…"

In the same quiet tones that Leena had used, Serge responded, as if he didn't want to shatter the moment by being too loud. "I remem'. 'Ow coul' I evuh forget?"

"Dat makes me…happy." Her chest heaved shakily as she smiled, chewing on the inside of her lip. She hugged her knees to her chest and said, "It's 'mazin'…memories. How ye' think some-un may've forgot, but 'cause dey dinna, more memories come floatin' back inter yer heart."

"Some villagers be talkin' 'bout greatness or wealth or summat…but fer me I be thinkin' all I want is dis. Simple it coul' be, but I dun care. Dis is great tuh me. Dunno, Leena, maybe we've got it right…so li'l o' things togeth' makes a bigger happiness, stead o' livin' in duh pas'…in a dream."

She was laughing quietly, watching the sun continue to descend. "A fork in duh road, an' a choice made. Wonduh if we'll remem' t'day, ten…twenty years down duh way."

"Sound like Kiki's pa. Made a choice like dat some years back."

"I guess we's all come tuh times like dat. Wonder what we'll be like later, wit' deez decisions we make now," Leena pondered, losing herself like she always had when she began thinking philosophically.

Now it was his turn to laugh lightly. "Who cares? I be happy jus' tuh live t'day an' find out what duh morrow brings."

She smiled at that and nodded, as if concluding something in her own mind. "Aye, yer right."

_Serge._

"There's summin' I wanna say…" Leena began.

_Serge…_

He looked around, confused; the voice wasn't Leena's and it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. It called his name a third time, like a future lover in a distant time that didn't exist. It called to him and he had no idea what to make of it. He was with Leena, the young woman he loved, the one he wanted to be with—but something inside this faraway voice attached itself to him, not his heart but his soul.

Leena fell quiet for a moment, or so it seemed. When Serge looked at her as a pounding in his head began to beat like a war drum, he realized she was still talking but he couldn't hear a word she was saying. A rumbling came from behind him. How it could have penetrated the thundering of his blood in his ears, he had no idea. When he looked hesitantly over his shoulder, a wave had appeared in the distance, building in both size and sound as it rushed towards them.

He was about to scream out to Leena but nausea overwhelmed him. Doubled over, he tried to look up at the water that would surely kill them. He panicked; not again, not again, not again, his mind kept screaming over and over. The wall of liquid lost its color, turning a gray as a miasma wrapped itself around his body. Choking back bile, Serge gagged, clenching his eyes closed as a bursting slate-green light erupted from the ground around his feet, as the ring of light spread, an ebony abyss took its place. Tendrils of light wrapped around him like a cocoon, popping bubbles of jade that floated and twirled to some imaginary wind.

With a grunt he leaned against his Swallow, wrapping his right arm around its haft while clutching his hands to his temples. The pain increased; it felt like his body was being torn apart and pieced back together on some distant shore. Finally, when he did cry out, his eyes opened and color bled back into the world like the strokes of a paintbrush on canvas. The portal of energy began to rapidly shrink, and it tugged at his shorts as the ropes of green light were sucked back into nothingness. A shudder wracked his body as he spun around, his vision swimming, and as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, Serge collapsed onto the sand unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Ghost of Life**

Serge awoke to someone nudging his shoulder with the toes of a foot. Slowly, cognition came to him as he groaned, and fluttered his eyes open. He was face down in the sand, eyes toward the ocean. As he pushed himself up, Serge looked to the source of his discomfiture. It was evening and the man's face was obscure but lined with wrinkles and he had a bald pate. What silver hair he had was around his ears and more than likely behind his head as well.

He continued to speak as if Serge had heard him, "…out here like dat. Thought ye' was dead. Kids shoul'na be playin' nowheres near here. Too many iffy things abroad, mark me words."

The old man nodded sagaciously as if his words made any kind of sense. For hours Serge had been here at Lizard Rock and Opassa Beach without so much as an awkward thing happening…until the end. Confusion began to set in as he tried to recap what had happened to him, why he was on the ground without Leena anywhere nearby. Leena! When he inquired about her, his voice was husky as if he hadn't had anything to drink in days.

"Leena? Yer a friend o' hers, eh? Well, she be back at d'village, watchin' duh li'l ones," the elderly man said. "Y'all right, kid? Looks like ye' dun feel well."

A coughing fit took Serge as he came to his knees. "I'll be fine."

With a shrug, the old man turned away. "Sure, kid. Jus' dun be playin' 'roun' hear no more. Ain't safe." The old man rambled on as he left Serge there on the beach.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Serge looked around. It was still evening, probably a little darker than before. From the looks of it, he had been unconscious for only a short while, but in that time, Leena had left him instead of helping him. Or maybe she had gone back to get help and this man had come before she came back with aid.

The sky wasn't as beautiful as it was before, at least not to him. He was disconcerted as to why she would leave. That wasn't like her. The Leena he knew would have done anything in her power to help him…because she loved him, because she cared. In a panic, he looked around, remembering the tidal wave that had hit the shore. Had it been his imagination? The beach was dry except where the tide rolled in and out on sand. Everything was calm and nothing looked out of place.

As he pushed himself upright, he realized that he was swaying. His knees felt weak and uncertain. Taking another deep breath while closing his eyes, Serge tried to get his balance back. Finally, when he was sure that his legs wouldn't give out on him, he grabbed his Swallow and clipped it to his back before starting the return trip to Arni village.

Lizard Rock was vacant of its life. There weren't any Komodo Dragons to be seen or heard which seemed odd to him. The sun was truly beginning to set and he had to focus on the unsure path that he was on; one wrong move would mean that he would slip and sprain an ankle, or that he'd cut himself on some coral appendage. By the time he reached the grassy path between the copse of trees along the coast and the forest to the north, the sun had touched the water behind Opassa, which couldn't be seen through the trees to the west.

Crickets chirped in a symphony as he made his way eastward. Everything awkward that had happened on the beach began to fade as he saw lantern and firelight coming from his destination. Darkness encompassed him as he followed the path through a thicket of trees, cutting off about twenty minutes of travel time. Serge had walked the path so many times in the dark on his nightly excursions with Leena that he knew the way by heart.

The small village became noticeably visible as he came out of the trees and he increased his pace, wanting more than anything to talk to Leena and go to sleep in his bed where true dreams would wash away this nightmare like the rolling of the tide. As he entered through the totem pillars that lined the pathway entrance to Arni, Serge saw people gathered around a few fires, talking casually. He smiled weakly to a few who looked at him, but oddly no one returned the gesture. By the time he reached the dock, he had greeted a handful of people but not a single soul seemed to recognize him, and his mood was beginning to reflect the awkwardness of the situation.

"Okay, come on, kids, time t'git. Duh sun's down an' I ain't wantin' tuh get in trouble wit' yer mums!" Serge heard Leena call out like a beacon of hope.

Children were starting to climb onto the pier, joking and laughing as they dried themselves off. Leena was moving from one to the next, helping them in such a motherly fashion that it eased Serge's worries a little, enough to give him a small smile.

Tiny forms went running by Serge as Leena pushed them along towards the village shooing with a maternal smile.

Another loving smile bloomed on her face as she watched them, but it faltered when her eyes came to Serge. Almost on instinct she looked around the rest of the dock to see if there was somebody else that he was coming for, but when she realized it was just her there, she became quizzical.

"What happened?" Serge asked with hands spread in submissive manner.

Confusion crept across her face. "Excuse me?"

This gave him pause. The sun was almost completely down and the front of her body was half-shrouded in shadows. Uncertainly, he replied, "We were at Opass—"

He didn't get any further. "What makes y'think I be anywheres wit' a stranger?" Her tone was incredulous. Spiteful.

Tears budded in the corner of his eyes. Now he was starting to feel befuddled. "Iss me, Serge," he whispered quietly.

"Serge?" Leena inquired, a thin trace of panic in her voice. The situation was not boding well for either of them. "Serge is dead." Her head tipped towards the north. "Buried on Cape Howl." As she began to assert herself, she said with more force, "It ain't right tuh say dat yer someone who died."

He opened his mouth, his pain like a heart on his sleeve. Ironically the only person he wouldn't have minded seeing this in him was the one he wanted to hide from the most.

Pity contorted her freckled features. She pushed her hair off her shoulder as she spoke quickly, "Sorry. I shoul'na said dat. Coincidence is all, an' I just cun help jumpin' 'head o' meself."

Serge couldn't find the strength or will to move.

"Dunno why I be apologizin'; dun even know ye'. But ye' shoul'na be sayin' dat we were togethuh—dat ain't right. Excuse me," she added tersely as she passed by him, conscious not to come within touching distance.

Serge stood there on the pier staring at the wooden planks a pace in front of his feet. By the time he realized he had just been standing around, the night dominated. The hissing of the sea penetrated his mind but there was no separating reality from fantasy. Numbly, he turned around and went back into the village. He had to see his mother.

Less people were surrounding the fires in the center of town, and all of them gave him an awkward look as he passed by the huts. Unconsciously Serge looked up to where Leena lived with her grandmother. He saw Leena's lithe body silhouetted against the drawn curtains and could hear both women talking, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. Two huts down, he looked past the stairs that led to his place and noticed that interior was completely different. His breaths quickened as hysteria set in.

A man behind him asked in a hard tone, "Like me home?"

Serge gracelessly turned around to look for the source; everyone around the fire was staring at him, but the speaker continued again, "Y'ain't bein' polite starin' in someone else's home."

He tried to respond, but nothing came out. Some of the village men began to stand, setting down their ales and looking like they were ready to remove Serge from the town in as blunt a way as possible.

"Marge?" Serge croaked.

"Ain't no Marge here, kid." Someone said.

"Git," another spat.

"Y'ain't welcome no more."

"Git, boy," growled the second man again.

And there was nothing else he could do. Serge backed up and staggered away, crying openly by the time he broke into a run. He didn't stop outside the village; he just kept running, every now and again tripping over his own feet and landing face first in the grass. He didn't know where to go; didn't know what to do. Nothing made sense as he began to realize that his entire world had been flipped upside-down in the matter of a few hours.

Pain weaved itself inside of his hysteria, causing him to cry and vomit and beat his hands against the earth. Leena didn't know who he was. She had said that he was dead…and he couldn't grasp the fact that the woman he loved not only didn't love him anymore, but apparently never had to begin with. And his mother, the true foundation he walked on for all of his seventeen years of life. His father was a distant dream, but she had been the one focus that he could rely on, through laughter and sadness. But now she was gone and Leena was gone and he was dead.

Dead?

Dead.

By the time exhaustion took him, it dawned on Serge where his feet had led him through his disconnected thoughts and battered emotional state. He was standing before the small lake that connected to the waterfall of Divine Dragon Falls. In his delirious state, he just stared at the natural bridge that wound up to the entryway of the cavern. It was eerie and gloomy and a perfect match to his mood. When he reached the runoff from the waterfall, he staggered beneath the bridge at the waters edge and hugged his knees to his chest.

He let the sounds of the roaring waterfall fill his ears, focusing on its presence that never changed. That inertia was what calmed him somewhat, enough for him to cry himself to sleep. Nothing made sense anymore, and maybe when he woke up, this nightmare would be over.

A soft mist tickled his cheek and slowly Serge opened his eyes. He was lying on the dirt in a fetal position. The arch of the stone bridge blocked the sunlight. It was now midday. He spent a while listening to the birds and the waterfall. He was numbed by the fact that it wasn't a dream. Or was it?

He removed his clothes and waded out into the cool water, taking solace from the feeling. He swam and relaxed as the sun kept moving in the sky, taking the day away with it. He'd washed his clothes and was waiting for them to dry as questions polluted his mind. What was he to do?

The only logical thing seemed to be completely illogical. He could go to Cape Howl and see if what this Dream-Leena said was true, and from there he would know if he could even face walking back into Arni village again. He wasn't known for sleepwalking, but it was something that could have happened. It seemed a safe bet to him, so when his clothes were done drying, he would head back west and go to Cape Howl. There he would find out fact from fiction.

With clean clothes, relaxed muscles, and a new kind of unstable determination, Serge set out at mid afternoon, keeping a steady pace. This day was much like the one the day before. The summer heat was interrupted by occasional bursts of cool ocean wind. Birds sang and animals frolicked in the fields between the forests. After a while Fossil Valley loomed in the distance, and as the twin peaks became one, Serge moved faster, knowing that behind the trees at the edge of the valley was Cape Howl. Soon he made out the elevated tip of the Cape.

The shade of the forest was a cool welcome to the blistering heat out on the grasslands, and it invigorated him. The closer Serge came to his destination the more determined he became, yet consternation was growing like a fungus as well. What he would find there would complete him, one way or the other.

The hissing of blowholes erupting could be heard long before they were seen. Six or seven lined the winding path up the slope of Cape Howl. The gusts of pressurized, superheated air gave the place its name. The closer to the cape someone came, the more it sounded like howling. But Leena and Serge had found comfort at the top, where the hissing was as far away as the waves crashing against the rocks on the shore.

Everything was quiet as he made his way through the rock and reddish sand. Forlorn took a hold of him and his steps slowing to a crawl as he approached the crest. He was unsure if he could live with what he saw. He knew that it was ridiculous to believe that his life was wiped away, but sometimes it took hard evidence to make a bad dream go away. Like his mother's soothing touch and voice when he was younger.

With the thought of her in his head his resolution hardened, and he went up the rocky path that was more shale than stone. When he came to the last ledge before the jut of open earth, he stopped, staring at the protrusion of limestone at the very edge. Here he and Leena had carved precious words into the stone so that it would last through eternity, a way to stake their claim and devotion to each other across time.

So why was he so hesitant?

He knew that he did not want to see those words gone or worse, replaced with something much less desirable. He swallowed down a dry throat; but he couldn't move forward and he couldn't take his eyes off of that chunk of weathered stone.

It was now or never.

He approached the jut of stone cautiously, as if it were a cornered animal. The irony was that he was one. Taking a deep, shaky breath to steel his nerves only belied his insecurities. It was true evening as he took the last few steps up to the chiseled rock, and he knew without reading it that his life as he knew it would never be the same. Fresh tears coursed their way down his cheeks as his knees gave out. The shale cracked upon impact. Now face to face with the words, he read them because he had to. There was no other route for him.

_Rest in Peace_

_Our beloved Serge_

_No one may ever take_

_anything from him,_

_And no one may give_

_anything to him._

_What has come from the sea,_

_has returned to the sea._

He couldn't believe what he saw. His entire existence was no longer real. Could he live a new life with a past that had perished when he was a child? Through the open crying, Serge began to dry heave. He had emptied his stomach the day before and he hadn't eaten since.

The sun died as he sat there on the heels of his feet, tracing fingertips longingly over the chipped, meaningful words, as if he were trying to retrace the path of his life from that fateful moment he had almost died—had died now—to the present moment in time, a life that he had robbed from some unknown force.

He had come here with Leena when they were twelve and hitting puberty. They had carved their names into the stone, bearing: "Serge and Leena Forever." This place had held such great memories to him, much like Opassa Beach. But now these sacrilegious perversions were a mockery of places he had held so dear to him.

His tears had ended hours before and the darkness of night had stripped his ability to physically read the words, but he knew every word—every notch in the stone—by heart now. There was no going back, and some part of him deep inside knew that, but what was he supposed to do about the future? Where was he supposed to go from here? Justification was nonexistent. At that moment Serge did not care about how it had happened, only that he wanted to know why this had happened to him. Did he do something so terrible in his future that the gods decided to smite him before he could bring that horror to fruition?

There were questions upon questions, like cogs and wheels in an engine.

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't hear the scuffing of pebbles under booted feet until a voice broke him violently from his reverie, "So this is Serge; the Ghost of Yesterday."

Serge whipped around so quickly that he scrapped his knees on the uneven ground and had to toss his right hand back against the tombstone for support. Fear and inquisition shifted his features, palpable in the lantern light that one of the soldiers in bronze-colored armor held.

Two of them were noticeable by their similar dress, donned in their bronze field plate, but one was short, stocky and carried a battle axe, while the other was tall, slender and had a rapier on his left side. The third was standing in the center was dressed differently. Long black hair contrasted the color of his loose-fitting, sleeveless white outfit. Glinting on his side was a double-headed hand-and-a-half axe.

The leader canted his head to the side. "Com'n, Ghostboy. Boss says yer to come with me." His tone suggested that he was used to having his orders followed.

Serge just stared at him, unblinking and unmoving, because he had never even seen these men before in his life, and yet they knew his name and the fact that he was supposed to be dead.

The taller of the two dragoons looked sidelong at the long-haired man and asked in a confused manner, "Sir Karsh, do ye' honestly believe he's a ghost? I mean…he does look perfectly normal to me."

Karsh didn't bother acknowledging the dragoon as he continued to stare at Serge. "Kid, com'n. Yer dead, and someone wants ye'. Best come quietly and of yer own accord, because I don't want to carry ye' down that hill. Dark as it is."

He seemed so reasonable, so quaint. Serge had nothing left here. Maybe he'd find out what was going on, but part of his mind told him to get as far away from these men as possible. Yet he was at the edge of a cliff with nowhere to run but the way that the three men were blocking.

Indecision seemed to irritate the dark-haired man as he looked at first the short soldier and then the taller one. "Take him."

"Oi, boys! Touch 'im an' get gutted like the pigs ye' are!" cried a feminine voice.

The three soldiers spun about searching in vain for the source of the voice. This was made easier when a supple young woman jumped down off of a ledge—over a gap of space that was a very long way from the shore—and landed between Serge and the soldiers. She was a small blonde lass with a dagger that looked about as subtle as her short leather skirt and vest, she appeared as capable of wielding it as the bloody color of her attire.

With a look of mild surprise, Karsh said almost conversationally, "Oh, yer a looker. But that'll only get ye' in trouble, lass. Best move aside before ye' get hurt."

"Heh, that's what ye' think, slag. Git before I kick yer asses so hard you'll kiss the moons." She was so cocky, so sure that it helped Serge ground himself.

As he stood, she looked over her shoulder. "Figured ye' coulda' used a bit o' help," she said, keeping a sidelong glance on the trio.

Before Serge could respond, Karsh held up his gloved left hand while keeping his right on the shaft of his axe. "Enough! Listen up, junior, _our_ orders are to take ye' in; I don't wanna have tuh hurt ye', but if ye' don't come willingly, we're gonna have problems."

With an aspirated sigh, the woman spat, "Oi, will ye' jus' get on wit' it? Ain't got all night, ye' know!"

The fact that the leader nodded to the taller of the two dragoons, he gave away any advantage he may have had.

The lanky soldier dove forward, drawing his rapier in the process. It was intended to be a horizontal slash that ended up being stunted in mid-swing as the blonde woman twisted around and threw out her leg, catching the wrist of his sword hand. Keeping the momentum, she spun, crouched, and lunged upwards with a vertical arm bar into his groin. He didn't call out so much as he yipped.

The shorter one had already begun to move as she went for the low-blow, and without knowing exactly why he did it, Serge sidestepped the woman and swung the Swallow left-handed over his shoulder, making sure not to hit the lass in the process. The shell blade of the Swallow made contact with the haft of the battle axe in mid-swing. The top half of the offending weapon sailed over the edge of the cliff. Serge caught the shaft with his right hand and stepped into the next blow, swinging with both hands like a bat into the man's helmet.

The woman turned her head and looked at Serge as the pang of metal denting caught her attention. She smirked, her bright blue eyes mischievous. "Thanks, bub."

Serge didn't know why, but he smiled in return. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the moment, the delirium of everything that had happened in the last day, or maybe a combination of the two. But it felt good to have an outlet. He glared at the last remaining offender. Serge stood side-by-side with this spitfire of a woman.

Of all the things that Karsh could have done, he just sighed and drew his axe from its belt loop. "Well, I guess if ye' want it done right, ye' gotta do it yerself."

Wrinkling her nose and brow in disgust, the lass spat, "Oi, shove it, stud. Imma make ye' lame!"

And with that she darted forward, hopping from her right foot to her left as she zigzagged for the axe wielder. Karsh simply watched her with his eyes, and when she came within range, he swung his axe back and up like a racket. The flat of the blade caught her in the shoulder as she tried to use a backhanded stab, and sent her off her feet. She slid along the shale, shattering plates as she slowed.

Karsh looked back to Serge and commented as he twirled his axe in one hand, "Sweet li'l piece ye' got there, Ghostboy. Let's see how well ye' do with it."

"Ladies first," Serge responded, readjusting his grip.

Sneering, Karsh charged, swinging his axe downward for just behind Serge's left shoulder, forcing Serge to pivot and bring his Swallow up to parry the blow. With a twist, he brought the other end around for the man's exposed side, but met the blade of the axe instead. Taking a step back, Serge snapped his right arm forward, and again the strike was blocked, but he already switched his momentum to his left side, swinging low while taking a step forward. Karsh weaved to the side but was hit cleanly in the opposite shoulder with the curve of the Swallow as Serge released his left hand and swung the weapon about in a full circle.

Before he hit the ground, Karsh braced himself on the head of his axe and clumsily spun around it to remain on his feet. As he came out of the turn he was already lifting the axe to parry an attack. Now Serge was pushed back with a volley of blows, each one taking him closer to the edge of the cliff.

"Yield," Serge heard.

A comet of red and gold in the background changed the entire situation around as the lass kicked the back of Karsh's knee. He twisted as he collapsed, his axe lodged beneath his back. The girl was straddling him even before he had hit the ground, gripping two handfuls of his hair. She sneered as she lifted his head and slammed it down onto the ground, accentuating each word she spoke, "That—really—fraggin'—hurt!"

Serge clipped the Swallow to his back and stepped up behind the girl, wrapping one arm around her bare stomach and the other across her chest, locking his fingers on her shoulder, and hefted her back. "'Ey! 'Ey! Y'done good. Dunna think ye' plastered 'im enough?"

Allowing herself to be pulled back, she dragged her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Slag," she muttered. And then she shouted, "Ain't so tough now, are ye', bub?"

When they were a safe distance away from the unconscious trio, Serge let go. "Maybe we shoulda be lookin' fer a way out."

"Oi, yer right—Serge, was it?" She stuck her gloved hand out, "Kid. Pleasuh."

He gripped her forearm and she his in the manner of comrades-at-arms. "Charmed," he snorted with a grin.

"I know," she said, picking up the lantern that had fallen. She began her trek down the hill, almost skipping, the light source bobbing and swaying dangerously. "Com'n, Serge, lets go!"

Not having to think about things for a while made him feel worlds better, and so without being heavily burdened with despair for just a short period of time gave him the strength to follow her down.

They left Cape Howl and the three bodies behind them, banking towards Fossil Valley to the east. Instead of following the prairie land, they entered the woods between the two landmarks. The canopy was exceptionally thick and true darkness would have enveloped them if Kid didn't have the presence of mind to steal their lantern, which in itself was funny because if they woke up before dawn, they'd have a hard time getting down the cliff.

After a while, Kid turned to Serge and said simply: "Here we are."

He looked around, not understanding until he saw a few scattered packs and a pit with the remains of a previous fire in the small space between trees.

"Ain't much, but its home," she said, setting the lantern in the ground. She looked up and squinted into the darkness. "Cunna see. Think they'll be able to see the light from outside?"

Serge unclipped his Swallow and sat down gratefully. He took a moment to scan his vague surroundings. With a shake of his head, he replied, "Naw. Treetops're wedged tight. No light in; no light out."

"Good," she said enthusiastically. "Then we can have a fire." As she busied herself with wood and kindling, she asked him, "So…ye' know why those blokes were after ye'?"

Again he shook his head, but she wasn't looking at him, so he gave his reply, "Nuh-uh." After a second's thought, he added, almost to himself, "Actually, I dunno nuttin' since yestuh-day."

Kid lit the fire, not looking at Serge or pausing as he spoke. Every now and again she had to move her beaded necklace out of the way. "Well, they wanted ye' for summin'. Best find out what." She looked up as the flames caught and the fire crackled. "They're drags. I gotta get meself into their manor anyhow, so if ye'd like, we can team up for a bit. I mean, those slag-assed bastards won't just leave ye' alone."

"'Drags'?" echoed Serge, lack of comprehension all over his face.

"Dragoons. Soldiers. Listen, whattayasay? Team up?"

Firelight caught in her eyes and danced there, playing a lovely symphony that didn't touch the expression she had. She was a fanatic and probably much more trouble than he wanted to take on. "Hell, since I already be dead. Why not?"

She took a loaf of bread out of her pack and broke it in half, tossing one half to Serge. "Yeah, I've been meanin' tuh ask ye', dat slag back there called ye' a—wha-was-it?" She was swinging her half of bread around as if the circular motion would help her remember.

"Ghost o' Yestuh-day," Serge put in helpfully.

"Oi! Thass right! What's dat mean?" she asked around a mouthful of bread.

Chewing first, Serge put the question to himself, and instead of just saying part of it, he came to the conclusion that he might as well give it all to her. "Well, I guess it starts when I was seven. 'Twas a rainy day an' I was at Opassa Beach. Duh tide was weird dat day. Got swept out an' almos' drowned. Thought I was dead, but I woke up on duh beach, fine as rain…or when I was three an' got tore up good by o' panthuh. Thing had o' kinda poison dat was like none dat our village coul' heal."

His eyes were riveted on the fire's dancing light as he continued to speak. "All was fine. Lived life an' all dat. Well, yestuh-day it 'appened. I was at Opassa wit' Leena," a distant smile touched his lips as he remembered that moment with her, "an' 'twas all perfect. Not a care in duh world." Now his words took on a more subdued, bitter tone.

"An' I dunno what happened next, but a wave came crashin' fer duh beach—fer Leena an' I—an' all life seemed tuh stop. Woke up an' went home, or leastwise what I be thinkin' was home. No one knew me. Got tuh Dragon Falls by chance…an' I figured it were some 'ow fittin': draconians were all dead an' gone; no one remem's dem no more."

Serge went to take another bite of the bread, but couldn't bring himself to do it, so he just lowered chunk to his lap. Now looking up at Kid, he noticed that she was staring at him with an intensity that he was sure he'd never be able to reach.

"Ever lose some-un? Some-un ye' cared duh world fer? Well, dat be only part o' it. See, its one thing tuh lose duh ones ye' love, 'cause it hurts, sure, but leastwise ye' know dat dey loved ye' back. What happened wit' me was so weird, 'cause dey never loved me tuh begin wit'."

A bitter laugh accompanied that last statement, husky and morose. "Leena 'ere say dat I died an' dat me grave be here. Well, ye' know. Hard tuh try an' face duh facts. It be muh grave, jus' like she be tellin' me." Shaking his head hard, Serge snorted. "Was dare hours befer y'all showed up…an' ye' know duh rest."

When he had reached the part about the chiseled headstone Kid stared at him with her mouth partway open, and when he had finished speaking she whispered in awe, "Damn, bub…musta been a real moment of truth."

Somewhat dejected Serge sighed through a half-smile. "Aye, well. I…I jus' dunno."

She uncrossed her legs and kicked him lightly on the knee from around the fire. "Dun worry, man. We'll find out what happened. Who knows…we might even have quite an adventure. Save the world or some sorry shite like that." Her tone was light and comforting, and he realized how relaxed he was. It was as if he knew her even though they had never met before.

"So wha's yer story?" he asked, staring at the swarthy canopy above.

Sleepily, she answered the world above her. "I was a kid an' that flea-infested feline slag—Lynx—came intuh me home and burned it down. No one lived. Dunno how I did, but I woke up good and safe. Anyway, Lynx is at duh manor, which is where ye' need tuh go, so if we find out yer bit, I can skin a cat, an' we can call it a day." Not bothering to stifle a yawn, Kid said, "Lets jus' get some sleep. Long day tomorrow. It's a good distance to Termina, an' from there we'll see 'bout gettin' in dat manor."

"Thanks, Kid. Fer t'day."

Leaning back against a mossy root, she said through a yawn, "No prob, bub. Ye' woulda' done the same fer me."

He wasn't sure how she could sound so confident about that statement, especially when it had to do with something as skeptical a situation as the one she was referring to, but somehow…he knew she was right. He would have done the very same for her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Traverse City**

The mellow greens and soft yellows of dawn found Serge and Kid at the edge of Fossil Valley. They had crossed through the plains and forest in the mute of pre-dawn, keeping a wary watch for the dragoons that they had encountered the night before, but they had encountered nothing but the waking of the world, dew on the tall grass, and a cool, misty air. When they approached the entrance to the valley, they saw that a small camp was made up in a spacious plot of dusty land between the massive curves in the mountainside.

A soldier sat next to a fire that was nothing more than embers. When they came close enough, they realized that the dragoon on guard duty was asleep. This made their passage through the entrance to the ravine much easier. The sleeper was decked out in the uniform field plate of the two from the night before, copper-colored armor, tanned leathers, and white cloth beneath it all. He had a cloak around his shoulders, effectively hiding his head in its folds as he dozed. In his lap rested a pale blue flower.

Kid looked at Serge and grinned. She made her way into the encampment, tiptoeing her way around scattered posts and debris. Serge grimaced as he watched her, unable to call out. In a hoarse whisper he tried to call her back, but to no avail. She moved through the thicket of pots, pails, and scattered poles. She made a beeline for a small tent that was propped in a corner. She disappeared behind the flap and Serge was forced to wait out the time being in a near panic.

He crept into the outer edge of the encampment, keeping himself at the guard's back, incase he woke up. He snorted and started a couple times but remained asleep, which gave Serge the jitters, stopping his heart with each sound the dragoon made. After what seemed like an eternity—which had only been a few minutes at most—Kid reemerged from the tent, first peeking around the flap before coming out into the open. She looked at Serge with a grin as she pussyfooted her way back through the camp, pausing at the guard long enough to pick the flower from his limp hand.

Serge breathed in irritation as he rolled his eyes at the lass. She couldn't seem to help being a nuisance; her penchant for rabblerousing and thievery was going to get them into a lot more trouble than they already planned on making. She passed him by and he turned to follow her, casting one last look at the camp.

When they went around the curve in the makeshift road, Kid became giddy and flirtatious like a schoolgirl. "Guess what I got us, stud," she whispered breathlessly.

"A pretty flower tuh match yer blue eyes," responded Serge, releasing his tension through his words. "But ye' woulda done better wit' a flytrap; bettuh suits yer personality."

A punch to the arm stopped the rest of his comments as she jingled a leather pouch in front of his face, her breath heady. "Monies, ye' dote. I gots us some dough so ye' can spoil me."

"Bun in duh oven good, too?"

Kid punched him hard across the cheek with a free hand he didn't remember her having, and for some reason this was really funny to him. Serge started sniggering and choked in an attempt to keep his voice down as he rubbed his aching jaw.

"Serves ye' right, ye' ass," she whispered fiercely, transferring the sack of coins back to her empty hand. "Yer lucky I don't gutcha."

"Sorry, but dat _was_ funny; ye' set yerself up fer it," Serge retorted quietly as he touched his jaw tenderly. The girl packed a punch.

The further into the valley they went, the more they realized how it had gotten its name. Scattered throughout the mountains were gargantuan skeletons embedded in the stone, but the way that they were situated, as well as the way they were worn down by weather, suggested that the range wasn't being excavated. From higher up, a true valley of skeletal structures littered the floor and mountainsides, but down in the ravine that was the natural road between the northern and southern parts of El Nino Archipelago, only a hint of Fossil Valley could be seen; a spine that was the tail of a large beast wound its way down the rocky cliff towards the road, and an empty eye socket shroud by the maw of a giant skull peeked over the edge further down the cliff. A small rise of land made way for a ladder that led up to the skull of the monolithic, long-dead creature.

It was an ominous sight. The playful banter ended and discomfiture set in. Every now and then streams of tiny bones crossed their path, and they had to walk over them, closing their eyes and bracing themselves as each step made a resounding, sickening crunch. Since the sun wouldn't touch the ravine until midmorning, the dusky shadows caught them off-guard more often than not, especially when their imaginations were given too much freedom. Every time they finished crossing a patch of bones Kid would shudder, looking like she was about to vomit.

Time and time again Serge heard her muttering to herself, saying "Never again," or "Gotta get outta here." He wasn't in a joking mood and he honestly felt the same way. The place had an eeriness about it that set his nerves on end. He wanted nothing more than to pick up the mantra Kid had started.

Sunlight peeked gently around the next turn and in the shadows they saw another encampment before the other end of the ravine. There was more activity at this end. Two dragoons were walking around, entering tents and setting fires. As Kid and Serge crept forward, they tried to get a sense of a pattern from the guards, but there really wasn't one. So stealth as well as luck would play a large part in their getting past the guard post unnoticed.

Kid led the way, crouched forward and running lightly on the balls of her toes. She waved Serge to a stop as a guard looked like he was about to turn in their direction. The dragoons' distraction allowed the young duo to slip behind tents and move along the edge of the mountains while the guards were preparing for the day. Anxiousness caused by the valley passage only made the hide-and-go-seek game that much more agonizing. When a guard entered the larger tent that probably held the other sleeping dragoons, Kid made a break for the grassy knoll just a few hundred paces away, with Serge close on her heels.

A hard bank to the left led them into a small copse of trees. Serge was breathing hard and had his hands on his knees, doubled over, but Kid had the presence of mind to check the outpost to see if they had been spotted. Since no extra commotion came from the encampment, she visibly relaxed. As she walked by Serge, she slapped his rump.

"Done already?" she chided.

All he could do was give a breathy laugh.

Termina was a port city and had the largest cluster of residential and business areas than any place in El Nino, with its many shops and hundreds of homes that spread from the port itself into the fields and forests on the outskirts of the city walls. The docks and stone piers backed up against a hill, where the city walls took to the sky, utilizing many stairs, ramps, and curvaceous walkways that wound around entire sections of the city, which allowed many homes to be built on top of each other, housing as many people in as small of an area as possible.

Since Termina was built up and in, Serge and Kid saw it long before they reached it. Its size daunted Serge, since this was the first time he had seen the city since he was a small child, and the place was overwhelming compared to the tiny, twenty-hut Arni. Serge whistled as he beheld the city by midmorning. It seemed thick and unrelenting to him, more impersonal than the wooden shacks of his home village.

"Iss huge," muttered Serge as he looked at the ziggurat tower over the trees.

Kid dropped her pack and fished for her waterpouch. As she took a drink, she looked at the peak of the city, and then handed the pouch to Serge. "Naw, that ain't nuttin'. Dis is more like a town than a city, least by the way we look at it on d'mainland."

Serge savored the cool water trickling down his throat. Corking the cap again, he handed the pouch back to Kid. "Yer from d'mainland?"

"Aye. Not much tuh rave about, 'specially when yer driftin' 'round like I've been," Kid said, shouldering her pack. "Com'n. We've got lots o' work t'do once we get to Termina."

A long flight of stairs led up to Termina proper. Sandstone and granite surrounded them when they reached the very top of the staircase. Stone pylons were erected at both sides of the stairs that were topped with what looked like bell statues. Banners fluttered from both bells where they would normally be mounted. Metal rods ran along the short walls of the pavilions on either side of the entry well and through the bells themselves, bending upwards and forming an intricate awning that was laced with flowers and small banners.

The sheer magnitude of the place forced Serge to stop and take a good look around. To the right was an entranceway that had a sign of two fish twining together in mid jump. It had the look of either a tavern or an inn to him, and as he looked further along the wall that ran past the platform, he saw a group of windows that looked like it ran two stories down, not up. On his left, he saw an elderly lady selling flowers and delicate plants, a soldier was speaking with the saleswoman inquiring about bellflowers. Loud conversations and joyful shouting could be heard mixing with the bartering of sales people further up the stairs a dozen paces ahead. Drunken men were making a ruckus on the next platform while kids ran by at breakneck speeds, seen only by the bobbing of their little heads until they reached the stairs.

Kid grinned and touched Serge's arm. His awestruck eyes turned her way. "Close yer mouth," she said. "Yer gonna catch flies like dat. Com'n, I'm hungry. I've heard about this amazin' Squid Gut Pasta all d'way from the mainland." She dragged him up the next flight of steps.

Kid looked around quickly, her braided blonde hair bouncing around lethally. More than once Serge was belted in the face or neck by it. "Oi, where is it?" She saw a woman walking with an infant in her arms nearby. "'Scuse me, this place sell dat squid pasta?" she inquired, jerking a thumb over her shoulder towards the establishment that had a wooden carving of a barbed lizard's tail hanging from the wall by its door. "Really? Great!"

And with that Kid was lugging Serge through the swinging doors, breaking his examination of a compass carved in the stone ground of the second level. A few tables lined the long hall, each capable of seating a dozen people. On the back wall there were lanterns behind old-fashioned cages that were common in churches, but the stained glass pieces were missing. Chandeliers hung above each table, brightening the scene but making the room almost as hot as it was outside.

Kid went towards the back, where a woman could be seen behind a counter. Serge followed her part of the way and then decided to find a table. Most were occupied, so he settled for a smaller table for four near the back of the establishment. He unclipped his Swallow and leaned it against the edge of the table. Kid took a few quick paces and a couple of skips to reach him; it seemed like she had a lot of pent-up energy but she didn't come across as being childish.

"They 'ave it! I'm so excited. Anyway, the wench shoul' be by soon." Now she took a moment to look around and get a feel for the place. "At least it's cooler further in. Lots o' people talkin' funny stuff, too. I guess there's a concert or summat goin' on. Guy's been on the mainland a few times, but I ain't ever bothered with it."

Serge leaned back and listened to the people conversing at a nearby table. "Aye, villagers be makin' a ruckus 'bout them bein' on duh Zelbess—well, back home anyhow."

Kid looked back at him and reached her hand across the table to pat his. "S'alright, bub. We'll get these bastards an' getcha home." Turning around in her seat so she could look around, she continued, "Sooner we get inta duh manor, the better. Ooh, he's cute—in a creepy kinda way."

She tipped her head towards the bar, singling out the rather slender man who had a long silver braid going down his back. He was flamboyantly dressed for a man; he wore white pants tucked into black boots. He wore an opened black dress shirt with a white coat that flared out drastically at the cuffs. Serge cleared his throat and looked away, but before Kid could offer an inquiry, their server approached. She was dainty, nondescript, and weary.

"Squid Gut Pasta, if ye' will," Kid said. "An' an ale."

"Ale. Ye've brown ale, aye?" asked Serge, when she nodded in concurrence, he nodded in satisfaction. "Den dat'll do."

As their server departed, Kid rubbed her hands together briskly, like a kid in a candy store. "Ye' ain't gonna eat?" she asked as their ales arrived.

He shook his head. "Naw. What ye' ordered woul' make me lose me stomach."

"Bah! It ain't as bad as that."

With a laugh, he said, "Suit yerself. I ain't gonna be touchin' dat wit' a ten-pace pole."

"Awe, an' I wanted ye' to spoon feed me wit' yer—" she didn't finish her statement as she took a drink and gestured to his weapon. "Whatever dat is."

"Dat's a Swallow. Me pa made it when I was a pup. An' spoon-feedin' ye' ain't gonna happen, not since ye' shot me down."

With a wag of her finger, she chided, "That's 'cause yer 'spectin' play wit' no work. Me?" This was followed with a dramatic gesture to herself. "I'm worth a lotta work, d'kind of muscle-achin', sweat-buildin' labor dat'll keep a girl goin' crazy. Oooh, yeah."

Serge gave her an incredulous look that suggested she was clearly insane.

Her food came and she tore into it with such gusto that it left Serge just as baffled as it had when she was vulgar. Kid emitted small sounds of enjoyment as she ate; never having her mouth empty for more time than it took for her to shovel more pasta into it. From what he could tell of the dish before it was obliterated was that it had linguini noodles, a white cream sauce that he thought had mushrooms and asparagus in it by the smell, and chunks of cooked squid stomach. The aroma was appealing and it did look rather tasty…that is, if the patron didn't know where the foodstuff had come from.

And so while Kid devoured her food, washing it down every now and again, Serge eavesdropped on the nearby conversations.

"Ugh, I lost me job today. Dunno how it really happened, but I'm back on the market for somethin' else."

Another man at the table sighed a bit heavily, saying, "Again? Can ye' not keep a job for more than a season?"

"Season work is what I'm good at," countered the first man.

"Yeah, well…ye' have tuh work, man. It's the only way you'll make money."

"Actually," began the jobless man again, almost breathless with excitement. Serge could hear the scraping of a mug as he made room to get in closer, "that's fancy ye' said that, Jock, 'cause I heard that the Frozen Flame's somewheres nearby. Me bet's at the manor along wit' that demi-human feller."

In aspiration, Jock asked, "Frozen Flame? Treasures and gems and jewels? Can't ye' jus' work for a living?"

"No, no, ye' don't understand. If I can get me hands on this, I'll be richer beyond reason!" he said in a husky whisper. "It's rumored that those blokes, the Radical Dreamers from the mainland, are lookin' for it, too, and that they're here in El Nino! But I tell ye', they won't see it, not if I can get to it first."

Their conversation ended momentarily as he heard the server's quiet voice. "Hey, Jock, I'm really tight for monies; can ye' buy me this next round?" A pause, then: "Thanks."

The serving girl came over to Serge and Kid's table and asked if everything was alright. Kid was still in rapture over her disgusting feast, but she grunted around a mouthful of food and wiggled her mug. Shaking his head and swallowing laughter, Serge looked up at the girl and gave her a nod when she asked if he wanted another round. He finished his drink and continued listening to the other conversation.

"Do ye' honestly believe this is a jewel or gem? If ye' ask me, 's prolly a creature of some sort—or weapon—an' maybe ye' shouldn't go lookin' for trouble. Get a job an' call it a day. The Festival should be lookin' for workers. Ye' can get a job wit' one o' them."

"Ah, hell, _easy money_'s what I'm 'bout, Jock. The Terminian Dream, that is!"

Serge shook his head and watched as the flamboyant man took down a shot of amber liquor and snatched up his staff, heading out. Their second round of drinks arrived and he began to drink while Kid scraped up the last of the chunky sauce onto the fork.

"Oi, that was _good_!" she said, sitting back and placing her hands across her stomach as if she was bloated.

Lofting his entire brow, Serge looked at her. "Yer disgustin'."

"Hey, tha's a fine cuisine dish if I ever 'ad one, bub. So mind yer manners." She took a heavy pull out of her mug.

"Manners?" Somehow the image of her eating just then and her comment made him laugh at the audacity of it all.

Kid finished her second drink and urged Serge to do the same. "Com'n, hurry. I wanna check this place out summore." At her request, he finished his drink quickly, paid for the meal and drinks, gathered their belongings, and then left in a flurry.

The heat and light outside was as suffocating as it was blinding. Both of them made sounds of distaste as they made their way towards the bridge where the tents were set up. They passed by a few women talking heatedly about Nikki the Bard and how amazing he was both visually and vocally; three men were huddled together outside a permanent shop that had a sign shaped like a jewel, talking about mushrooms and their rarity.

That last conversation made him smile somewhat forlornly, having reminded him about the many similar conversations in Arni about fish and shells. That train of thought led him down the path of what had happened to him recently and his good mood had evaporated as quickly as ice melting in the summer sun. What he was going to do was anybody's guess. Kid had the right idea, he supposed, and finding out why this had happened seemed like a shot in the dark, but he had to try. He had to do something.

With a start, he looked at Kid as she stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Let's just look out over the water for a minute or two," she said in a dreamy sort of tone that puzzled him, but he was distracted and obliged without complaint.

After a moment or two of looking out at the water run under the bridge, he realized that Kid wasn't seeing the beauty of the place; her attention was elsewhere, and as he glanced around, he saw the silver-haired man in white talking to a short woman with a cowl wrapped around most of her head. Serge propped himself against the ledge of the bridge with his elbows and looked down at the ground a pace in front of his feet, listening to the conversation. After a few interchanges between the man and woman, it dawned on Serge that Kid wasn't ogling the man: she was listening to the conversation that had to do with the manor.

"Guile, Guile, Guile. It's impossible, just accept it," the shrouded woman said. She was so short that she only came up to the bottom of his chest. Her neck was craned to the point where her wrapped head cradled in the hood of her robes.

Guile, who was the man from the bar, replied, "No; there is trickery to all mysterious magic; there is no such thing as an impregnable fortress."

The woman gave a raspy sigh that made her seem old. "I know naught about these fickle things as trickery and deceit, my good sir, but you must believe me when I tell you: 'tis impossible. The guards flow like water there, they are ever-moving and in abundance."

"I said I would get it, and I will. Something as small as the medallion should pose no real problem, except from inside, because getting in is but a minor inconvenience."

"If you insist! The bet, then, is still on and you've three days left to not only enter the manor but to come away with the token," crooned the heavily-garbed lady. "Time is ticking, as they like to say."

"I simply wish my prize when I return victorious," said Guile in an oddly neutral tone.

"We shall See," said the lady a bit haughtily.

With a clack of his staff upon the ground, Guile snatched it up and said sternly, "Work your magic elsewhere, milady. I've a date with Lady Luck."

As he headed back towards the direction of the Dragon's Tail tavern, the old woman shook her head and sighed heavily. Suddenly, she harked, "Fortune-telling! I shall read your fortunes for a coin!"

"Oi, these people!" cried Kid melodramatically, feigning a swoon.

That attracted the attention of the fortune-teller and she approached them, "Ah, I see something special here." Her eyes were only on Serge, and he didn't realize it immediately. It took Kid shoving an elbow in his side for him to look up.

"Fortunes can be good; fortunes can be bad; I can do anything from reading your destiny to searching for the missing. You, boy, would you like your fortune read?"

Kid snorted. "Come off it, lady."

"No, no," started Serge, somewhat lackadaisical. "Lesse wha' she's gotta say."

The blonde lass was a bit disgruntled but remained quiet nonetheless.

The fortune-teller cleared her throat and closed her very large brown eyes. Humming to herself, she raised her hands towards Serge and began to sway. After a moment she said: "Well, isn't this interesting? You're not dead, are you? Has somebody called you back from the great Beyond?" Her brow furrowed in consternation and even though Serge couldn't see it, he imagined that her mouth was contorted into a grimace. "You…you just might have the key to the destruction of this entire planet. I…Huh, well, I cannot say for sure, but it seems that Fate has a great task for you, boy." As her eyes opened again, she visibly relaxed. "Be careful, not just with yourself, son, but with the choices you make."

A burst of snorted laughter came from Kid. "Whatta bunch o' rubbish! What the hell kinda' shite ye' feedin' people? _Key to destruction_ an' _Fate has a great task_? Hah! What a joke. Com'n, Serge, lets get outta here."

Anger burned behind those murky eyes as the fortune-teller squared her shoulders to Kid. Her eyes snapped shut and she extended a palm towards the taller, younger girl. When she opened her eyes, she said: "You there! Within you I perceive both the look of beauty and the look of a beast. Be mindful not to bring about your own end, my dear, or those of loved ones. A dream lies in wait, reaching out to engulf you."

"Surry, mum, but I dun believe in fortune-tellin'," snapped Kid. She slammed a fist against her chest to accentuate her next statement. "I make me own future by _meself_."

"Lass," sighed the old fortune-teller, seeming to sag under the weight of her wisdom, "just once you should listen to the advice of others."

Kid reached out and grabbed Serge by the arm and tugged him along angrily. "Heh, I dun give a damn, lady. Com'n, Serge."

Kid was so wrapped up in venting about the fortune-teller that Serge just listened to her as they walked along the bridge blindly. There was a lanky boy with a Mohawk throwing rocks at a few kids around a covered tank while the shopkeeper was shouting angered remarks to him.

They went down a steep set of stairs, passing by people who barely got out of the way of Kid bowling over them. Bitter remarks followed them down. When they reached the bottom, Serge stopped Kid and turned her to face him.

"Listen tuh yerself, darlin'." Serge stared at her downcast eyes. "Iss okay. We be fine. No need tuh get worked up over nuttin'."

Kid sighed and looked up and met Serge's eyes, they were twinkling with unshed tears. She swallowed down and looked grim. Blinking back tears, she gave a forced smile. "Sorry, man. Got carried away."

"Iss alright, lass," said Serge affectionately. He ruffled her hair a bit.

When Serge looked around, he saw an elevated shack half-shroud in trees and surrounded by low streams. They were shaded from the sun by the great walls of Termina and the air smelled fresh and clean. There were small rafts and a few canoes drifting along the river that led out into the sea, and above all, it was exceptionally quiet. It started to occur to Serge on how they had ended up there.

He decided that they should leave, and guiding Kid, Serge led her back towards the steps. The young man who was talking to the shopkeeper of the flower shack was descending the staircase. As he made to pass them by, his gaze caught on something Kid had. There he stopped Serge politely.

"Excuse me, sir," he said with a nod to Serge, "Miss," he gave Kid. "I see that ye' have a bellflower. I was wondering if ye' would be kind enough to part with it."

He was only a few years older than Serge and already had the scars and hard lines of a tough life beneath his belt. He had dark green eyes, and his sandy-blonde hair was a bit flyaway if only for the weather. He looked immaculate and simple at the same time, wearing earthy tones which contrasted greatly with most people in Termina—either commoners or travelers.

Serge looked down at the bellflower tucked loosely in Kid's belt. They made eye contact before he slipped the flower from its place and turned back to the man. "Sure."

"How much would ye' wish for this?" inquired the man, reaching for his coinpurse with his free hand.

Kid opened her mouth to barter, but Serge pinched her hipbone, which resulted in her squeaking. "Nuttin'. I saw ye' lookin' fer 'em, an' ye' cun find a betta' use, methinks."

The man lifted his eyes. "Thank ye', kind sir—" and then to Kid—"milady." Before he left, he said, "I shall remember this kindness."

Now alone, Kid backhanded Serge on the elbow and whispered fiercely, "Whatcha do that for? We coulda got a pretty price off that flower!"

Serge pushed her up the first few steps and retorted, "Ye' need tuh see when generosity benefits, Kid. Up ye' go. We gots a thief t'catch an' a plan t'hatch."

"Stop it," she grumbled as she caught her footing and ascended the steps. "Yer makin' me all flustered."

He couldn't help it; he really liked that woman.

They made a hasty retreat by the fortune-teller who was, thankfully, engaged with a small cluster of customers. Kid looked as if she swallowed a frog as she hid on the other side of Serge as they flew by the old woman. Once they were off the bridge and back in Termina proper, they made their way to the Dragon's Tail tavern and ducked inside. The afternoon was already peaking and the heat was so unbearable for most people that they had crowded indoors. The tavern was no exception.

Serge scanned the heads of the customers; he had kept command of the situation since Kid seemed a bit out of sorts for the time being. Guile was easy enough to find since he was about a head taller than most of the other patrons. Serge guided Kid first by the arm and then by the waist as the establishment became much more crowded the further in they went.

Guile was standing at a table, bent over and talking quietly with a well-endowed blonde woman that had her corset so tight it looked like she was about to either spill out of it or burst its seams. She giggled at something apparently witty that the silver-haired man had said, and something inside Serge was silently grateful that the other man's preference was known.

"'Scuse me," Serge said as he stood just aft to Guile.

Guile turned to look sidelong at Serge, which was almost at eye level despite being bent over.

Serge answered the look of inquisition with a rueful expression, "Miss Luck offers 'er condolences."

That bit of witticism was met with a sly smile from the graceful man. Looking back down at the woman—her breasts when she wasn't looking, her eyes when she was—and said with sadness that wasn't faked, "I regret, Olivia, that our wonderful conversation will have to wait for another time. You have my most sincere apologies—"

Serge was already walking away, but since his adrenaline was keyed up, he could hear everything as he moved for an empty table towards the back.

"—Do I have your consent to depart?" Guile already had her hand cradled in his as he paused with her knuckles just a breath away from his lips. She giggled and said something—probably anything to get that kiss, Serge assumed—to which Guile feathered her hand with the briefest of touch of his lips before heading over to where Serge and Kid were seated.

"Whiskey fer d'board, doubles fer Miss Luck's health, an' ales because iss hotter dan hell outside," Serge said, gesturing to an empty chair. Guile sat down fluidly, not speaking until after the drinks had arrived.

The commotion was uproarious, nearly impossible to think through, but the three looked from one to the next, and Serge opened up the conversation, the noisy din a good cover despite the armored dragoons scattered throughout the place. "M'name's Serge, dis is Kid."

"My name is Guile," he said. "It seems that you have a just proposition for a gambling man." It was a statement, not a question.

"'Pose I offered ye' a way tuh get whatcha wan', an' all we be askin' fer in return is a bit o' help wit' ours?"

"And praytell what that might be."

Serge lifted his shot glass and waited for the other two to do the same. When everybody had theirs raised, he offered, "Tuh Miss Luck."

The toast was echoed and they threw back their shots of smoky whiskey and then Kid got down to business. "Ye' need a way inside the manor an' we need a way onto the property. I think we can help each other. If we work together, both sides can get what we need, eh?"

Guile seemed a bit perplexed, and when he spoke, his words were slow and careful, "How do you propose we get inside, provided I can get us onto the premises?"

Serge put his two cents worth in, "An' how'll we get ontuh duh property?"

"To the backside of the manor, where it faces the sea, there is a pathway of sorts up the cliff wall. Not to mention that I have elements of use to us that could get us on the property without much worry," Guile said as he propped an elbow onto the table and wagged a finger, looking first at Serge and then to Kid. "But here's the catch, we need to get a sea-worthy vessel and a solid enough sailor to not only guide us through the treacherous rocky shore, but someone who will not speak of where or what we are doing…ever. Now, your turn. How do we get in?"

Kid smiled and said, "Through the front door."

Guile blinked.

With a look of mischief that spoke volumes about her, she added rather than amended, "I have me ways."

"This is interesting. And what about you?" the long-haired man inquired of Serge.

With a shrug as response, he simply said, "Imma 'long fer duh ride."

Sitting back, Guile scrutinized the pair as he nursed his ale. Finally, he said, "And about transportation?"

Kid wagged a finger at him and smirked. "Now dat I ain't tellin' until we're ready t'leave. Deal?"

With a look of consternation, Guile replied, "That is one hell of a risk."

"Ain't wantin' ye' to be runnin' off on yer own when ye' find out our way in, now would we?" chided Kid after a hefty gulp of her drink.

"Your point is well taken. Where and when? I have but a small window in which I can work."

"How's 'bout tomorrow afternoon?" Kid inquired.

"That works for me."

At this point, Kid went for the throat. "Now…ye' gots any monies tuh chip in?"

A smirk crept up on Guile's lips as he eyed the woman. "That can be arranged."

"Good. Now dat's settled, bub, let's drink."

It looked like Lady Luck was with everybody that night; and Serge reflected on that as intoxication started to sink in. They drank a few more rounds and Serge couldn't keep his eyes off of Kid. She did so much swindling by the end of it that Serge couldn't help but admire her—truly admire her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: The Termina Answer**

The reds and purples of the setting sun looked like bruises across the water. Shadows encased the four standing at the base of a rocky cliff. The water churned a pace behind them, sloshing angry foam against the earth. The ferryman, a gaunt teenage boy with tribal paints and tattoos across his almost nude body, was struggling to tie off the skiff to the outcropping of stone that Kid, Serge, and Guile stood upon.

Streaks of ebony lined the uneven wall before them, revealing far too many grottos and overhangs than any of them were truly comfortable with. Kid had her head craned all the way back and was staring up at the feat ahead of them. All of them had dressed in darker clothing to better suit their endeavors.

"Ye' gotta be fraggin' kiddin' me," she said. "I cunna even see the top from here."

"Believe me," said Guile with his typical nonchalance, a tone that was beginning to grate on Kid's nerves. "It is up there."

Kid spun around and glared at the taller man, seething. "Oi, this ain't what I signed up fer. There's gotta be a better way, like d'way through the Shadow Forest."

With a blasé expression, Guile eyed the small lass. "There would be no telling how long it would take us to venture through the forest—or even where to go—to find _that_ passage, let alone if the well is even in use anymore. As I told you last night, I have a way in that is sure, but risky." With a faint smile tugging at his lips, he added, "Trust me."

"Oi, 'ello Miss Kettle, this is Pot," she grumbled, rubbing the back of her neck.

Serge, on the other hand, was quiet. He was looking for their first advantageous foot- and handholds. His blue eyes zigzagged across the surface as he figured a path up, but a few dozen paces up the side of the cliff, he shook his head. About halfway, a massive chunk of earth jutted out from the wall, and in the gathering darkness, it'd be impossible to navigate around it. That was, unless they wanted to introvert their climb and dangle by the holds of their hands a nasty distance from the rocks and choppy sea below.

Guile turned back to the ferryman. "You agreed to wait for us here, at least until dawn."

The kid looked up and scratched his bare chest that had random, ineffectual crisscrosses of fishing lines across his body. "Uh, yeah, dat'll be d'way. Agreed fer a deuce, which I only gots me one half o' it now."

With a shake of his head that sent his braided hair dancing in the wind, Guile said with a smile, "You know the agreement. Half up front and half when we return, because—call me a stickler—I want to ensure that we will not have to swim back."

With a heavy sigh, the ferryman submitted. "A'ight, a'ight, I gets it. I'll be 'ere."

Guile turned back to the others. "Ready?" Again his tone was casual.

"Bloke's madder than devils in o' frozen hell," grumbled Kid as she shook her hands irritably. "Waitin' for ye', cap'n."

"We dun 'ave duh tools tuh scale dis," said Serge as he looked sidelong at Guile. "I ain't exper'enced 'nough fer dis…and I doubt any o' us are."

With the flair of a stage performer, Guile snapped his arms up to show he had nothing in his hands. He reached his right hand into his left voluminous sleeve and withdrew a thin bundle of rope. Retrieving his staff-like rod, he wound one end of the rope around the pummel securely. He gave Kid a coy smile that she returned with a sneer.

"We shan't ascend in the typical method, my dear Serge. We shall use…magic." The last word was emphasized by a flick of Guile's wrist which caused his rod to lift off the ground without aid.

It swayed momentarily. He let go of the rope and it unwound. A flicker of his right hand forced the levitating rod higher into the air, each push matching the strength of his motions. With both hands free, Guile concentrated and then worked them in an invisible sphere. The intricately carved staff just hovered in the air, but when its master forced his palms together, something amazing happened. The energy between the palms was palpable, and as it was forced inward, the staff vanished in two separate discs of blackness. By the time his hands clapped together, the rod had vanished along with the rope.

Taking a cautious step back, he looked up and raised his right arm, palm towards the earth. When his arm was fully extended, he flipped his hand around and flicked his wrist. A hiss and crunching pop could be heard further up, muted by the wind and sounds of the sea. The rope dropped down, pooling at their feet.

"Well I'll be damned," said Kid.

"Impressive," Serge chipped in.

"Now, if everybody will take firm hold of the rope, I shall take us up by means of levitation."

The venture up was by no means as rigorous as Serge had either been led to believe, or let his imagination and judgment determine. The most awkward part of the journey up, besides being exceptionally close to Kid and Guile, was when they had to use their feet to push off from the wall to navigate around a few of the larger chunks of foliage-spattered stone. In a very brief span of time, they were at the top of the cliff, and upon looking down, they could barely see the outline of the skiff—which was only because they knew it was there to begin with. Looking around, they seemed to be alone. There seemed to be a very light guard; they were standing against the small wall of an outpost that looked out over the sea and cliff.

They hopped over the wall and Kid crept forward to scout the area just outside the door. Guile retrieved his staff by concentrating and then snapping his arm back, pulling that condensed energy with him. The staff broke free from the rock and sailed around Guile's back before coming to a hover on his right side. Night had finally settled in; the only sunlight left was a very deep crimson that made a thin line on the horizon.

Kid came back, whispering, "A few drags walkin' 'round in the yard, but dis place is _huge_! I bet we can jus' mosey on out there an' they wouldn't be able tuh see their nose from a hole in d'ground."

"We have to find a way _in_ the manor, Kid; that will be a harder feat to accomplish if they have _any_ guards out front." Guile phrased each problem without a solution, but it didn't seem to deter Kid from her obvious excitement.

"Hey, we gots ways o' takin' care o' them," she whispered as she strutted towards the closed gate.

Somehow this wasn't going to end up well, went through Serge's mind as she decided to be a blunt force right from the start.

He was pleasantly surprised when she eased the gate open and slipped out, keeping a keen watch for the patrolling guards. There were three or four of them that Serge could see, but they were on the other side of the courtyard, and Kid was right: the place was massive. Exotic trees and bushes lined the buildings and walls with small gardens scattered throughout the courtyard, giving the place a sense of presence; Serge wondered what it looked like during the day. The scents that were noticeable came from flowers that promised a much more exuberant aroma when they were in bloom.

Serge followed Kid as she kept to the southern wall and its plants, pausing every now and again as a guard made its way towards them or turned in their direction. A pathway that could fit about six armored knights wound around the side of the building's south wing. The front area of the manor wasn't quite as large as the back section, but it was magnificent nonetheless. He couldn't see its end and could only depict the front of the entrance to the manor by the jutting pillars of the veranda before the doors.

Kid made her way for the bend in the outer wall as it curved from the cliff to the south to the forested area to the west. She stopped at an awning and crouched down next to the raised platform that led to a cylindrical stone construction in the center. When the two men approached, Kid stared at Guile.

"Hear dat?" she whispered, gesturing behind her, to the brick and mortar tube. "A well; a waterfall; soun's like a way in tuh me."

Guile sighed, but it was much quieter than his voice, which was barely a whisper. "I did not doubt you; I just did not trust the odds compared to what I had to offer. And that wasn't so bad, now was it?"

Kid harrumphed in response, and Serge would have laughed if he wasn't a coil of tension. "Dis place is massive!" he whispered, placing a hand on Kid's thigh. "Whatcha lookin' fer anyhow? Both o' ye'."

She faced Serge and stared into his blue eyes. A smirk played across her lips. "Not gettin' col' feet on me now, are ye'?" Serge glared at her as she evaded giving an answer. He had an odd feeling that he wasn't in control of any part of his own life.

"What I need is in one of the rooms that houses the Devas," replied Guile. "It is an amulet of sorts."

Serge was still glaring at Kid, his face contorted in anger.

A sigh came from her lips as she leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I'm 'ere fer Lynx; the general knows where he is, an' dat's a bit closer tuh what I need."

He swallowed down his emotions and looked away. "Less jus' get in an' get d'hell out."

Once again, Kid took the fore position and led them across the cobblestone path and into the bushes that lined the wall of the manor itself. They were huddling as low to the ground as they could, and tried to keep behind the plants as they passed by a few dragoons on duty. The double front doors were unmanned; only a few soldiers were watching the front of the building, but the conversations coming from the distant front gate stated it all: more guards were watching the entryway than the property itself.

Kid stole another glance before kneeling down. She fished for something on her person. When she looked back up, she whispered to Serge, "Watch me back, bub. Imma be exposed for a few." All he could do was nod as she crept up onto the raised dais before the doors.

Every now and again, Kid would look over her shoulder to see if the way was clear, but she left that task to Serge and Guile when she knelt down in front of the door, putting all of her concentration into her task. Serge didn't know what was going on and looked at Guile for an explanation. He took one look at the blonde thief working the lock with a pick with deft efficiency, and smiled at Serge. "Lady Luck," was all he whispered.

A soft click came from the doorway, which was the only disturbance that occurred since she went to work. She stood and slowly pushed down on the button of the latch and signaled for the other two to join her. She kept watch as she eased the door open and all three of them slipped in one after the other. Kid eased the door closed, biting her lip.

They turned to examine the immediate foyer of the manor, and the encompassing grace and beauty was palpable even in the dim lighting. Very basic electricity was integrated into the walls near the ceiling. The room was octagonal with a few steps that led up from the front door onto the tiled floors. In the center of the floor was a very large engraving of a four-legged dragon that had its wings thrown back. The plating looked like it was made out of obsidian, since it reflected about as much light as the glossy floor. A small rise was seen at either side with brass doors that were both elegant in design and craftsmanship as well as seemingly out of place for the interior of a building. Both were left open and the hallways were dark, except where the light of the moons came in through the many, large stain-glass windows. Immediately opposite to the front entryway were two massive doors with brass and silver piping, and next to that was a device with a coiled serpent upon a brass podium.

Guile gestured with a wag of his finger towards their left. Without a word, all three of them snuck across the tiled floor, taking each step cautiously. Upon entering the hallway, Serge visibly relaxed as they made their way across the carpet. The amount of light coming in through the windows was muted and cast more shadows than it illuminated. They passed by many doors that were less elaborate but still were designed for comfort and privacy as opposed to show, like the gate-like caging they passed entering in the hallway.

The place was utterly silent as they traversed further down the hall. Towards the end, when the doorways showed higher class, Guile paused and tested the doorknob. It didn't turn. Moving to the next door down, he tried again, and this time the door was not locked. Holding his breath, he pushed the door open a small crack. When no light met him, he opened it up further and strained his hearing as he entered. Kid followed him while Serge looked about the hallway to make sure there was no one else around. Satisfied, he slipped inside the room.

There was nothing but overwhelming darkness and the trio stood there for a moment, trying to listen for the sound of even breathing. When they heard nothing Guile lit a match, startling Serge. The taller man lit a candle by the fireplace. He began to snoop around the room; looking on the mantle, inside and on top of the desk, and a few other, various locations, but he seemed dissatisfied. He turned back to the other two and shook his head.

Kid risked a very quiet whisper that came out more like a breath than words. "Split up?"

Guile gave a shrug and took another fleeting glance around the room. Now he shook his head and motioned for them to get over to the door. He blew out the candle and ventured across the room in the dark. Out in the hallway, he immediately went to the next room and tried the door. This process was repeated over and over again with Kid picking a few locks along the way. Almost a dozen rooms had been searched and Kid made a few grabs for various items of expense. When they reached the end of the hallway and having no luck in Guile's vain search, they stood before a stairwell that led down.

Kid pointed down into the abyss that began as steps, and looked at Guile with a look of inquiry. Guile shook his head and ran a finger across his throat. She nodded to him and looked at Serge, jerking her chin in the direction of the foyer. So back they went, Serge in tow, even though the initial idea was to come here for information as to why he was being pursued. But that line of thought would only cause him to be careless, and after silently chiding himself, he went after the other two.

It seemed like hours passed as they tried room after room in the other wing. A few were locked, and a couple of times they had walked in on people sleeping, but they didn't bother sticking around long enough to see if anything of value was in the rooms that were clearly occupied. No one passed by them in the late hours of the night, for which they were exceptionally grateful. In the second to last room, things began to look up for them in the most awkward of ways. When they went to go inside, there was a light on in the room, and clearly they thought that they had been caught. Kid was already turning to bolt down the corridor and down the stairs.

Guile waited at the partially opened door and risked a peek inside. Oddly, it was vacant, as if the patron had gone to the kitchens or lavatory. With just a few precious moments to spend, Guile waltzed into the room as if he owned the place and gave the place a very quick but efficient scan. On the wall above the desk was a plaque that had an object that looked like a necklace with a small medallion on it. He approached it and read the print on the brass plate at the bottom of the plaque. Excitement etched itself across his features as he grabbed the necklace off of its mounting and wrapped his prize in a cloth before storing it away.

Kid was keeping watch down one length of the corridor and Serge stared at the stairwell that led down. He made a sharp gesture to Kid as Guile was returning the door to its previous position. Guile looked at Serge with puzzlement, but the shorter of the two jabbed a finger towards the stairwell and left it at that. All three of them took off down the corridor as quickly and quietly as possible. As they came into the foyer, they pulled around the wall and listened. For a moment it looked as if Serge had overreacted, but when a door clapped shut, they all let out the breaths they didn't know they were holding.

Kid rolled her eyes and sneered at Guile who offered her a shrug in return. Kid made for the doorway and tried the handle. It was locked, and there wasn't a keyhole to be seen on the knob. With a shake of her head, she stepped over to the device and looked around the floor and its immediate vicinity. She pointed to a smaller version of the engraved four-legged dragon at the foot of the door. She mouthed "trapdoor" before turning back to the device.

There were a few knobs on the slanted plate beneath the coiled snake. She eyed it and then took a knee and leaned in, pressing her ear to the edge of the panel. It was a slow process as she turned the knobs while listening to the internal mechanisms. Finally she leaned back and half-smiled to the pair of men, pushing the knob back in to activate the device.

The well-oiled machine hummed to life as gears inside it turned the serpent first one way, and then stopped before turning the opposite direction. When it came to a stop, a click resounded from the door. With a girlish shrug, Kid made her way to the heavy door and pushed it open. Before them was a long staircase with banners and tapestries hanging on the walls. A few statues were mounted on pillars of granite that seemed to show long dead residents of the manor.

The top of the stairs revealed two external wings that had outdoor walkways leading to them, and a gigantic main hall. There were pillars around the outer ring of the hall, and the floor was tiled with beautifully designed plates. The hall was completely empty and the throne itself was on a platform that had been raised from the ground up to the top of the room where it looked as if another set of stairs led to yet another level.

"What duh hell?" Serge whispered, moving around the banister and down the steps. He made his way through the room, seeing how—even in the gentle lighting of the two moons—the stone masonry and metalwork were incorporated together. As he came closer to the back wall where the throne was raised, he saw the large metal pipe that was beneath the platform that held the throne upon it.

He reached Kid as she came halfway across the hall and he shook his head. "Ain't nuttin' there."

"We'll come back to look inta' it," offered Kid as she moved back towards the railing.

She made for the passage on her left which ended up being locked. Grunting disdainfully, she headed to the other side. The brass gate slid open with a soft clinking sound. When they stepped out onto the elevated walkway, they looked around. The two moons were large and very, very real from this height, and it was breathtaking. One of the moons was clear and white, its pockmarked surface showing gray patches that stretched across its surface. Slightly overlapping its lower corner was a much smaller, dusty red moon that was veined with dark purple rivulets.

Kid whistled. "It's official; I'm impressed."

Guile was looking over the edge of the bridge. A few flights down were the top of the manor, its gardens, and cobbled pathways. The few soldiers on patrol were small and nondescript from their height. The shape of the manor was more like a ship as opposed to a building with its aerodynamic domed rooftops. Even the fireplaces didn't have chimneys in the classical sense, yet the building utilized vents instead. The structure, from what he could see, seemed far too advanced to be well over a hundred years old.

"This is getting more and more bizarre by the moment," he said, casting Serge a sidelong glance.

"Oi, less jus' go." Kid started walking across the bridge. "Might even find summore booty."

The interior of the bell-shaped wing took advantage of its circular shape. A set of stairs mounted in the wall ran up into a corridor that housed books. Another ledge stood at its end with no real way seen to reach it. Bookshelves were mounted in the curved walls of the first level, seemingly thousands of them. In the center of the room was something that looked like a classroom, with its many desks facing one larger one tucked into the only actual corner of the room beneath the stairs. And, seated behind that desk, was an elderly man.

"Can I help you?" he asked quietly. He stood up and approached the trio.

Kid tugged at Serge's sleeve and whispered fiercely, "Less get outta 'ere!"

Indecision etched itself across Serge's features as he was about to turn to leave, but then something happened that he did not intend.

"Oh, my. You must be—yes, yes! You're Serge," said the old man, his face lighting up with enthusiasm. "My, my, how you've grown!"

This sudden twist in the night's events rendered Serge utterly speechless. Kid, on the other hand, had no such qualms. "Oi, bub, best be sayin' how ye' know me bud here. Who the 'ell are ye'?"

Serge took in the old man's appearance, his purple and gold embroidered robes somewhat wrinkled, much like the man's face. He wore half-moon spectacles that rested on a bulbous nose that he looked over. His eyes went from Serge to Kid, acknowledging her with the look of a professor sizing up a new student.

"Hmm…how best to explain this?" With a smack of his lips he approached a desk and sat down on its edge. "I guess you could say that I am the Prophet of Time."

Kid snorted.

Looking back at Serge, the self-proclaimed prophet continued, "Let me see…how about this? The world is not just a single entity. There is another world very similar to ours that exists in another plane—or dimension, if you will—where you will find what might have become; a world filled with other possibilities that might have existed, a whole history that has yet to be written. We are simply unable to see, feel, or experience it." He finished this last bit with a smile, watching Serge watching him. "I'm sure that you're aware of what I'm speaking of."

For the first time the group had come together, Guile looked nonplussed. "Serge, what is he saying?"

The Prophet of Time, having proven his worth in such a humble manner, turned his eyes to Guile and answered for the mute youth, "This is not his plane. Ten years ago, he died in this dimension while living in the other." He looked at all three of them before coming back to rest his gaze on Serge. "There is more I must tell you, Serge, and I doubt we've much time in which to cover it.

"Ten years ago, something happened that put your very soul teetering on the balancing scales of Fate, half dead and half alive; survival seemed to be in the cusp of this balance. This was when your future was split in twain."

The Prophet looked to the others, their baffled expressions bringing a gentle smile to his lips as he explained, "In Serge's home world, per se, he lived and prospered, which is how he has gotten to this point in time. But here, he is dead. Time moved on without him and it seems that he is no more than a ghost brought back from the past. Alas, I do not know what happened ten years ago or what triggered your return to this plane, Serge, but all I know is what it is that allowed this to happen. Since these are parallel universes just on differing planes, there was a distortion in the merging of the Space and Time Continua, which is justly called _Angelus Errare_ which translates to _Where Angels Lose Their Way_. It is said that, there, the borders of two planes fluctuate in such a way as to make the passage between realities possible."

"But I dunno any reason why I woul' be 'ere," groaned Serge, his voice breaking from lack of speech and the intensity of what was being said to him.

With a sad shake of his head, the Prophet said, "Maybe…maybe you're the missing piece to a giant puzzle here, in this world. Maybe your lack of presence here has drawn you across the realms of space and time to this place to fill that void, that missing piece."

A weary sigh came from the elderly man as he leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But…I cannot say for sure. No one truly knows. The only thing that I can say for certain is that the rift that bridges these two separate realities together is a wormhole that connects the two. At least as long as this plane is in need of whatever it requires of you."

"If dis is an alternate place, den why duh hell did Serge die?" asked Kid, rubbing the back of her neck.

Serge placed a hand on her arm and shook his head. "Summin' things 'appen."

"There might be more t'it!" replied Kid with a sigh.

"Whatever the case," stated the Prophet, "you will only find out by moving on. So, I shall advise you on your next step. In the main hall, on the fourth pillar to the left, there is a switch that will lower the throne. On the throne is another switch that will raise it up. Beware, Serge, for there is an adversary where you now go; be cautious of the choices you make. Now, if you will, I have other business to attend to, as do you. Off you go, off you go." The Prophet made a shooing gesture with his hands.

Upon exiting the wing and the library, Serge took a moment, composing himself as the breezy summer night air caressed his skin. He felt flushed and lightheaded. With his hands on the railings, he looked out at the swarthy image of forest, plains, and mountains in the distance.

Kid placed a hand on his shoulder. "Y'alright?" When he didn't answer her, she asked, "Serge?"

He looked up at her trying to keep his expression neutral, but his breathing was labored and his heart was hammering painfully against his ribs. "Think Imma be sick."

With pursed lips, she rubbed his back affectionately. "Take yer time."

_Angelus Errare_: Where Angels Lose Their Way.

It meant nothing to Serge, but he knew that the tugging in his heart belied his desire to find Home again. He was sick of the idea that no matter how much new information he gathered, the input tended to just confuse him more. What was the meaning of this? Of his life? It seemed that Fate was throwing him into one mess after another, without him having any power or control.

When he looked up again, he heard Kid and Guile arguing quietly. "Look, I dunnuh care if yer confused—we all are. If ye' wanna, just leave. Serge an' I'll go on. Ye' got whatcha came fer."

"No, it's not that, Kid. I just would like more information about these things before stepping into something that's obviously well over my head," Guile replied just as impassioned as her.

"So what're ye' gonna do? Comin' or leavin'?"

Serge barely held onto his composure as he stared grimly at the two. "Com'n, less go." He turned and strode away, not caring at this point if they even followed him.

He flung the gate open and strode towards the steps leading to the throne. A few paces from the bottom step he suddenly stopped. Kid and Guile approached, flanking him as he just stared into the moonlight entering the chamber.

Puzzled, Guile asked, "Serge? What is it?"

Serge shifted his footing into a fighter's position.

"What is it, bub?" Kid asked, hand going to her dagger.

As the moonlight drifted and the shadows of the pillars moved, a play of light revealed the ethereal shape of a woman who was about as tall as Kid. When the shadows moved over her again, she lost form and vanished. A few seconds later the woman reappeared and took on a more corporeal form.

She was dressed in form-fitting leathers. A small coat was zipped halfway up her breasts that exposed her midriff. She had leather bands tied around her forearms and across her hands. There were rings on most of her fingers and bracelets on both wrists. Cords of leather were woven through her brown hair, and randomly laced with tiny bells while larger ones were knotted at the tips of her pigtails that made her chime and tinkle when she moved.

"Ye' cunna be serious…" breathed Serge, right hand back, holding the Swallow.

"So you must be Serge…" the moonchild said with a smile. Her voice was soft and playful, but it also carried something else behind it, something more or less, but Serge couldn't be sure which one. "You're far sexier than I hoped for."

The way she said it suggested that she knew what she liked and what to do with it.

"Who d'bloody hell are ye'?" snapped Kid.

With a gesture of an open palm, the brown-haired lass said, "And this vulgar one must be Kid." With a groan of distaste, she added, "Disgusting."

Flying off the handle, Kid spat, "Whadja say, hussy?"

"My name's Harle. I am the right-hand of Sir Lynx."

With appraising eyes, the new woman took in Serge's form unabashedly, biting her lower lip as she caressed his physique with her gaze. As she did this, she wet her lower lip with her tongue. "Serge, please, a moment: if you lay down with a dog like her, you'll catch fleas. You could do better than this…"

The audacity of the woman's comments set Kid off as she took a step forward, drawing her dagger, "Oi, what duh hell is yer problem, tramp?"

"Actually," Harle said in a stern, businesslike tone, "I suggest you all turn back. You should not defy him." She began sauntering forward, her hips swaying, her voice taking on its more salacious tone, "Please, Serge, I would hate to see anything happen to you."

Kid made to dive at the woman, but her form lost its physical presence, graying until it vanished completely.

In the emptiness around them, Harle's voice echoed: "Think of me; dream of me."

The blonde woman was fuming as she shoved her dagger into its sheath. She strode over to the pillar suggested by the Prophet of Time and slapped the switch. The platform began to lower and Serge stood there, staring at where Harle had stood.

"Oi! Think wit' yer head, Serge," spat Kid, grabbing his arm and shaking him. "Y'know, dat lump three feet above yer ass?"

Breaking out of his reverie, Serge looked at her and just grinned, his expression a bit more hysterical than he would have liked. He followed Kid as she dragged him to the throne, Guile behind them, remaining wisely silent.

She looked around the armrest of the chair and found a panel that slid back. She pushed the button and grabbed a hold of the chair as the mechanism kicked in and took them upward. She was still angry as they came to the stairs that led up to the next level. She didn't seem to care if anybody heard her anymore. Without a thought, she strode to the first door she saw and threw it open, storming inside…and froze.

On the desk in the office was a blue orb with many facets, set into a metal casing that looked like petrified sapphire flames. Her eyes widened in surprise as she moved cautiously forward. "Is dat it? Duh Frozen Flame? Na-a-ah, dat ain't it. Ain't no other booty here, either, so looks like we'll jus' have to ask duh general personally."

Serge furrowed his brow. "Frozen Flame? Why dinna ye' tell me yer lookin' fer it?" His tone was incredulous.

A shrug was her initial response and when he looked at her in a very peculiar way, she said, almost sheepishly, "Well, it was fer Lynx an' duh Frozen Flame."

"What woul' ye' need wit' dat thing? Tryin' tuh be a god?"

Kid scoffed, balling a fist and shaking it at Serge menacingly, "Hey, I ain't needin' tuh explain meself tuh ye', Serge!"

"I think we have company," Guile said, staring at the statue at the massive carving of the dragon on the back wall as it began to move.

"Remem', Imma 'ere to help _your _ass, bub. What I be needin' to do ain't none o' your concern!" she hissed, ignoring Guile. "Now, as I said: Imma ask d'general."

"…And speaking of the devil," mused Guile.

"My compliments on getting past the security here," said a baritone voice from the back of the room.

Both Serge and Kid whipped around, the latter snapping, "Not much dere, slag."

Sniffing and rubbing his nose with a knuckle, the General Viper asked, "So, what was it that you wanted to ask me?"

"Not dat I be too happy wit' 'im right now," began Kid, gesturing to Serge as she glared at the general, letting her boiling anger vent itself out on the first target she had at her disposal. "Why're ye' sendin' yer drags aftuh me boy—Serge—here?"

"Serge?" Viper inquired. "My dragoons?"

"Don't feign ignorance now!"

Confused, Viper said, "I'm sorry, my dear, but I don't have the foggiest idea of what you're talking about. Now, if you could tell me what you're doing here and who in heaven's name you are; then we might be able to establish something…before you're all arrested, that is."

Serge watched Viper's eyes go over to the wall where his sword was sheathed. The aged man had a balding pate and sharp, aquiline features; his shoulders were broad and his body seemed to be well into its prime. Even dressed in casual dress shirt and pants, Viper looked formidable.

"Nuh-uh," said Serge as his hand went behind his back, ready to draw his own weapon. "Dun even think 'bout it."

"General," a new voice said, something that was raspier, more guttural, than the general's. It was a voice that seemed to come from a mouth that was not shaped for human speech. "I believe that these vermin are here to see me."

A demi-human stepped into the room, having come from the same hidden chamber as the general. He had on a uniform that was tailored specifically to his frame. He stood almost as tall as Guile and had broad shoulders and a furry face. His jaw was strong and his snout was short and blunt, ending in a moist black nose. Small, sharp teeth gleamed in the light when he spoke. His eyes were large and green, with pupils shaped like slits. His fur was a reddish orange. From his high collar, large fur-tuft ears protruded. He had a feral but intelligent look to him that spoke of a high sentience than those of lower castes of demi-humans.

"Ah, Serge. Good," he continued, eyeing the young man, "this saves me the trouble of having to find you."

"Find me? Why?"

The demi-human was about to reply, an odd expression that might have been a smile appearing, but Kid burst in. "_Lynx_!"

Lynx's eyes took on a quizzical look. "Are you…Ah," the smile returned along with a sound of sarcasm, "you must be Kid, then, a member of the _fearsome _band of thieves known as the Radical Dreamers, correct?"

"Radical Dreamers?" everybody echoed.

"This young lass?" Viper added.

"Heh, yes. Do not let her youth fool you, general. She can be as ferocious as a stray."

Kid took a step towards Lynx but Serge was in the way. "Comin' from a murderin' bastard like yerself!" As Serge pulled her back, she barked, "An' where's duh Flame? Huh? I ain't gonna let ye' have yer hands on dat!"

Mocking her, the catman asked, "Going to change history, Kid? Want to bring someone precious to you back to life? Or…are you looking to save her first?"

Serge was now really hard pressed to hold her back, but he eventually got her under control. "Com'ere, kitty, kitty, kitty! Imma gut your furry ass!"

"Do you think I'd be stupid enough to pick a fight with a rabid dog?"

"Kid, calm _down_!" grunted Serge, wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her back. "Dammit, 'elp me, man!"

"You want the Frozen Flame, bitch? Good luck. That fire resides hidden in the Sea of Eden, beyond where the past and future collide," Lynx began, teasing her with riddles. "But then again, a place like that is inaccessible to a little rogue like you."

When Guile had a firm grip on Kid while she kicked and growled; Serge turned back to Lynx. He took that step forward, a sneer forming on his upper lip. "Why're ye' lookin' fer me?"

"I want to ask you a question, Serge, as simple as that may sound. What is it you desire?" When he received no answer, he continued, "Do you want to live again—to wipe your demise from the pages of history?"

"Whadja want wit' me?" whispered Serge. And suddenly that question didn't matter anymore. A pain so great overwhelmed him and an image of an island city with ports for more than ships could be seen, it boiled and twisted, the space it occupied being distorted until a great sphere of flames and then blackness engulfed it. He blinked back tears as he fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

Lynx continued to speak, his voice quiet but truly intense, "Listen to me, Serge, the end of the human world is nigh! When that time comes, there will be a great enmity between you and the earth." Gripping his clawed hands into fists, he almost growled. "This is not speculation; this is not prescience; this is _history_!"

As he was speaking, Serge finally was able to get to his feet, supporting himself on the desk. Holding his chest with his free hand, he staggered back. A few shapes of cats wreathed in flames and shadows materialized in the room. Their forms did not scorch the ground but they did emit a heat that was suffocating.

"Lemme go, ye' bloke," grated Kid as she fought against Guile. "We need tuh git!"

"Ah-h-h, but you cannot escape, my dear child, there is no—" Lynx began, but was interrupted when a dark-haired beauty stepped into the room.

"Daddy, I wanted to…Oh," she said, placing a hand daintily on her breast.

Before she could continue, Kid whipped around, drew her dagger and pulled the woman to her with the blade to her pale throat. "One move, furball, an' she gets it."

"_Who are you_?" the woman asked in a frightened voice, panic swimming in her large eyes.

"Damn it," Guile said, "you're making things _worse_, Kid."

"My darling Riddel!" shouted Viper, throwing caution in the wind and drawing his sword from off the wall. "You dirty little bastard!"

"Shup, ol'-timer! Ain't nuttin' dirty 'bout savin' me own skin!" And in a whisper to Riddel, her hostage, Kid said something that actually made her prisoner calm down visibly. "A'ight, bubs, lets blow."

The door was still open as they backed up. Serge drew his Swallow and twirled it around, keeping his eyes dancing from each of the incarnations of fiery darkness to Lynx to Viper, and something in Guile's voice alerted him to others coming up the stairs.

"Lady Riddel! Let her go!" cried a man wielding an axe. It was Karsh, still bruised and ashen.

"Um…'kay—whattaya take me fer, an' idiot?" spat Kid as she dragged the woman up the stairs that led up and out into the night.

Serge and Guile protected Kid as she backed up each step. A handful of dragoons stood with Karsh as General Viper and Lynx stepped out of the room. "Let my daughter go and I'll kill you quickly!"

As they got outside, Kid called out over the slender woman's shoulder, "As if we cun trust ye'!"

"Well…now we've got you, thieving trash. No way out," said Lynx in far too calm of a voice, his arm barring Viper's approach.

The guards took to the doors, blocking the path, as the others went to flank Serge and Guile. The dark of night was illuminated by a glowing pond broken up with lily pads, and these fluorescent green bushes that Serge had never seen before. His eyes started to dart about more as he tried to adjust to them. Further back they went, onto a small alcove that ended just a few paces beyond. Kid cursed as she looked over her shoulder.

"Are you willing to jump to your death?" inquired Lynx in a smug tone. Preoccupying them with the question, he drew an inverted knife from the back of his belt, and in an underhand throw, he flung it towards Kid.

Kid saw the motion of the arm, knew Riddel was in the way, and did the one thing she could think of, Kid threw her captive away with a cry and dove in the opposite direction; the blade of the knife winged Kid's arm before she could get completely out of the way, and she staggered back, gripping the wound. Serge was rushing towards her, but it was too late. She tipped back against the lip of the awning and fell over.

"_Kid_!" screamed Serge as he looked over the edge.

Guile came over to his side, and said in a quiet voice, "I will catch her." Elevating himself, he jumped over the edge and flew out of sight. Serge turned back to the cluster of people closing in on him, Lynx at the front of the mess.

"What do you live for?" Lynx asked of Serge. "What are you willing to die for?"

"Git over yerself," spat Serge as he backed up, keeping his Swallow between Lynx and himself. Somehow the catman wasn't capable of leaving the moment alone; every time something happened that would force one of the two to become all business, Lynx was arrogant—utterly casual—but when it was between them, the demi-human seemed to forget the entire world—either of them as far as Serge was concerned—and spoke in a fervent tone about things that Serge couldn't understand.

"Ah-h-h, I've waited a very long time for you, Serge. A very long time. Now come with me…come to me," Lynx continued, extending a hand in companionship, which only added to Serge's desire to either run him through or scream.

Lynx's voice echoed in Serge's head and he felt himself swimming, unable to focus, but he had to. He looked back up at Lynx and emitted a guttural sound from deep in his throat. Young as he was, Serge knew that he should be frightened of this spawn of coupled races, but again the thought of finding solitude for his questions made him hesitate. "Come to me, Serge."

Without pause, Lynx drove in; his voice was cordial mingled with the undertones of zealousness. It was that last aspect, those minute sounds that made Serge remember; he thought of Kid falling, wounded, from the ledge and over the cliff that they had climbed earlier, and of Leena and his mother that he wasn't sure he'd ever see again. He blinked and tried to clear his fluttering vision, but the echoing in his head made it impossible to achieve.

_Come to me_.

_Come to me_.

"Serge, listen to me. You must understand this world's need for you—"

Throwing tears away with vicious shakes of his head, Serge denied this humanoid panther's words. "No!" he screamed as all of his emotional turmoil went into full swing behind that single word.

"You must understand, Serge," Lynx tried again, this time panic coming into his voice. One hand extended and the other away from his body to show that he was no threat. The catman looked pleadingly at the young man, trying to reason with the hysteria that was exuding from those blue eyes. "You are the Assassin of _Time_! Please, _we_ must stop this. _Please_!"

Again Serge shook his head, crying openly; great sobs shook his chest as he staggered back, placing his hands to his temples while still holding onto the Swallow. "No, no, no. Dis cunna be…dis cunna be…"

A pace away from the young man, Lynx became worried, his catlike features reflecting all his own emotions that encompassed so much, even if it differed from that which was seen in Serge's own eyes. "Please—come with me, Serge."

_Come to me_.

"Come to me," he repeated again.

_Come to me_.

Serge looked up, tears staining his cheeks, and met the eyes of Lynx, his nemesis. A snarling sound forced its way out of Serge's throat as he threw himself forward, swinging up with the Swallow. The demi-human backpedaled to avoid the swipe.

"Co—no! Wait!" he cried as Serge flung around, grabbing a hold on the banister.

Lynx dove forward, screaming as he futilely reached out to stop the young man, albeit it was too late. "_No_!"

All other sound was washed away like a welcomed blessing as the wind buffeted Serge while he fell, watching, with something akin to relief, the ledge shrink and then disappear into darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Beads of Deceit**

Slashes of crimson danced across a canvas of black and white; a sliver of steel and a sigh—distortion with a swirl of gold and cardinal red—and orbs of blue faded into the background, and finalized into the pattern recognition of stone and sunlight.

An arc of pain swelled inside the mind, the kind that spawns from betrayal of infliction. A cry, a sob, and then all fell silent; those blue, blue depths would never be more than emptiness.

Now corporeal, a dreamlike sway held fast to him as he looked down at his naked body swathed in firelight shadows. Black, black water bubbled over his cupped hands issuing from deep within him. It pulsated as he stared in panic. Was this his? Even though the source seemed to come from within him, he did not feel as if he were dying—but the pain in his heart throbbed with every pump of liquid that sloshed on the cobbled floor.

He wanted to cry, but he felt guilty—that would be far too many wrongs to be a right, no matter how badly he wanted to just break down. An aching emptiness seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, suffocated him as he stared transfixed at the ebon flow coming from his palms and sliding between his fingers.

The only thing that he could think to do was close his eyes and look back at the endless nothingness that was eternal bliss, and he would have been able to give himself to it if it weren't for that gnawing feeling that pulled at him. Pushing and shoving, dodging and weaving, drawing and repelling…

And it all seemed so simple: just place his face in this heartbeat of liquid and just breathe in, let it consume him as he drew it into himself.

But he didn't; he couldn't; with a tearless cry he threw his head back and let that agony boiling inside him vent itself in the most uncontrollable shriek he could muster…and a soul has a reservoir unlike anything else within the universe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Where Valor Lies**

Serge jerked awake, and that was when sounds of a panicked voice and a firm but gentle hand that was on his upper arm, unaffected by the sweat that had built up. As he calmed down, he stared ahead, letting the wild splash of colors solidify themselves into a wood paneled wall, crates, and rugs that hung like tribal tapestries. Still breathing heavily, there was a darkly tanned, heavy set woman looking at him with such concern that he immediately had an image of his mother pop into his mind.

"Are ye' a'ight, chil'?" she asked him. "Ye' a'ight?"

His jaw quivered and he realized that he was more than sweating, he was crying.

When he did not answer, the woman sat down on the edge of the straw cot. "Ye' was screamin', chil'. Ne'er 'eard no sound like dat." She shook her head as if to amplify the meaning of her words. "She a'ight, son?"

"Wha'?" was all he could croak out; his voice sounded dry and useless to his own ears. The only thing he could think to do was cradle his face in his hands.

She smiled in a benign manner, a mixture of empathic pain and tender sympathy. "No man coul' soun' like dat wit'out a woman tuh draw dat from."

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he groaned and peeked over his fingertips. "Where ammuh?" Through the door, he could see the ocean in the distance. It was serene and beautiful in the sunlight; touched by heaven, as the people of Arni called it. He choked back his quasi-uncontrollable emotions.

She might have hugged him, but she refrained; it seemed that she knew that that would push him over the edge. "Wha's yer name, chil'?"

The way she called him a child and at different times a man, he somehow pieced it together that she was a mother of experience, knowing how to be compassionate and understanding at the same time without coming across as standoffish.

"Serge."

"Well, Serge, muh son brought ye' 'ere. Korcha. An'way, he be outside, not knowin' what tuh do." She seemed to pause here, more pain in her eyes that seemed to be coming from a different source than her own anguish—or maybe as a mother, every pain that comes to her door is pain that she feels, emotionally if not physically.

"Yer frien', duh girl…" she stopped again, almost ready to look away, but she didn't. With a will that seemed to draw Serge's attention, she continued, "She's at duh clinic; she ain't doin' well. An'way, Korcha cun fill ye' in bettuh—"

And with that she turned her head to the side and bellowed towards the door, forcing Serge to wince in pain of the sound, as if he would be inflicted with a mortal wound if he denied her summons. "_Korcha!_"

And he came, all scantily clad whipcord frame and wayward Mohawk, charging through the doorway as if the demons of all levels of hell were on his heels. "Ma?"

Her voice took on a quieter tone, now that her son had responded quickly and efficiently, "Take Serge tuh 'is frien'."

Pushing himself up, Serge realized that he had the pants on from the fateful expedition to Viper Manor. He drew himself over the edge of the cot and immediately hung his head again. When the world came back into a singular focus, he braced himself. As he stood, he let his body find its equilibrium at its own pace. After a few moments, he was ready and Korcha led him out the door.

The tower of wood and twine construction was massive, starting much larger at the base and spiraling up to a conical tip two levels above their heads. There were bridges connecting other towers together, one on the other side of the deck a few floors below and a couple that could be seen on the same side of the dock-like mainway. The side they were on was built out into the ocean from the rocky hills, what appeared to be long dead volcanoes.

Korcha led them down a bridge on their side of the thoroughfare. He didn't say anything to Serge as they walked, the bridge creaking and swaying haphazardly to the motions of two different sets of footfalls. At the central pair of towers, the slender boy turned to Serge and finally began to speak as they came to the ladder.

"She ain't good, man. Burnin' up when I gots 'er here." He stopped talking as he descended the ladder to the main lobbying area.

As Serge reached the bottom, he looked around while Korcha guided him through the cluster of outdoor stalls and shops; only so much room was available in the interior of the cone-shaped tower. Even in the early hours of the day, he could see so many people buying, selling, and trading in the elliptical common center. Attempting to take it all in with so many thoughts fluxing through his head was almost impossible. With numbness akin to shellshock, Serge stole glances at everything he could while following his guide.

After a slew of stalls and barkers stating wares in every imaginable fashion, they finally came to the end of the pavilion, and he breathed a heavy sigh of both relief and anticipation. Korcha looked sidelong at Serge as they made for a hut that was separated from the rest of the structures.

The chill of the sunless interior slapped Serge across his whole body to the point where he shuddered. Both of them took their time to let their eyes adjust to the darkness of being indoors after the harshness of the bright morning sunlight. Korcha reached that balance before Serge. "Dis way."

Serge moved further into the small alcove that was lined with dressers, beds, and windows that were draped with dark, heavy fabrics. Lines of light segmented their way, giving Serge something to count as they moved towards another room.

A demi-human stood in the doorway, catlike or apelike in appearance, but Serge couldn't be certain. She was dressed in a white robe that was so simple but intricate that he was overwhelmed by her presence.

Her voice was quiet, gentle, soothing the listener as if to not draw too much attention to herself, "Hullo, Korcha." Her large, almond-shaped eyes ran over Serge, vertical pupils expanding. "Dis mus' be him." With a nod from Korcha, she held the drapery open, standing off to the side. "Please be quiet, duh patient's tryin' tuh rest."

Now that Serge's eyes had fully adjusted to the dim lighting, he took in the new room. It was elongated, which must have extended out beyond the edge of the dock where the boats were moored; it held a row of beds on either side that numbered to a total of six a side, granting the idea that the place could house many injured people but revealing how little residence that the township held.

A man sat vigil over a bed in the far corner of the room; both the doctor and the patient had blonde hair. Upon the entrance of the two, he stood and came their way. The closer he came, Serge saw that he was much taller than himself and his hair hung down almost to his waist. He face looked careworn in the half-light.

In a whisper, Korcha addressed the doctor, "'Ow is she, doc?"

With a shake of his head, the doctor looked Korcha over first, and then Serge. He spoke to both of them as he quietly said, "Not good. You must be Serge. Anyway, I've narrowed down the toxins in her body—yes, she's been poisoned—and it's somethin' that I'm not sure I can cure."

Korcha looked at Serge before asking, seeing that the other man couldn't speak just yet, "Why not?"

The doctor gestured towards the other room and, with one fleeting look at Kid lying on the bed in a comatose, troubled sleep, Serge was ushered into the main room. "Wuss wrong wit' 'er?" he finally asked, his voice as hoarse as it was before, cracking from disuse.

The doctor guided Serge to a chair near a desk back by the entrance, and then when they were all as comfortable as the situation would allow, he began to speak, "The knife laceration is almost superficial—cutting into the muscle, but not enough to actually cause permanent damage. On top of that, she's broken a couple of ribs and suffered a concussion." Holding his hands out in an almost pleading manner, he continued, "She'd survive at that point, but…"

With a deep sigh, he concluded, "But she's been poisoned, from the knife wound, and the toxin has spread throughout her bloodstream. It's infecting her immune system, and killing her cells as her body tries to fight it off. She's holding on much longer than I thought she would have, but I can only assume that she's not going to hold out much longer."

"'Ow long?" inquired Serge, almost gagging on his own words. His eyes burned. The sweat hadn't left him yet, and it was like a filminess that won't let his angst escape.

"A week at most."

"What kinda poison is it?" asked Korcha, his voice quiet.

"Hydra venom. It's one of the most potent of poisons; it enflames and spreads like a plague."

Serge spoke, his voice as hollow as he felt, "Cure?"

The doctor shook his head with his eyes closed. "Not anymore," the words came out as a sigh.

Korcha gritted out with: "All dis medicine an' d'ere ain't no cure? No way?"

Distantly, Serge wondered why the youthful teenager was sparked by Kid's condition; they didn't know each other and the amount of words that had been passed between the two was vulgar at best, brief at worst.

The doctor released a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes and rested his face in his palms. "Look, man," he began, his voice muffled by his hands, "hydra venom is as lethal as anything we know of here in El Nido—and probably in the world. The mainland has nothing as poisonous, and through all of my studies, I've never come across a poison—or remedy—that's as powerful as what comes from a hydra."

"Ye' said 'not an'more'," said Serge, his hand clenching and unclenching ineffectually at his side. "Whadja mean by dat?"

Looking up through his sandy blonde hair, the doctor eyed Serge. "All descendants of draconian lineage carry both a poison and remedy in their bodies, specifically any sentient reptiles. Dragons and hydras have powerful medicinal properties stored in differing areas of their bodies; sometimes it's in their organs, other times their bones, and sometimes their blood itself.

"With hydras, though…" the doctor began, glancing at his apelike aide before looking to Korcha and finally back to Serge. He shook his head and heaved a weary sigh. "You don't understand, man; hydras are rare and valuable creatures, _everythin' _is useful: bones, meat, organs, blood, you name it. They're considered to be a panacea for various illnesses. The ultimate cure to whatever this world has ever thrown at us. We in the medical field don't know why, really, but we do know that they're invaluable—an' worth a hell of a fortune. They were hunted to extinction."

Serge visibly sagged in his seat which resounded with a symphony of creaks and groans. His head was hung low, staring ahead without seeing. The silence continued.

The nurse spoke up, her voice soft but guttural as if unnaturally forming the words from her wide mouth, "Duh mainlan' shoul' have hydra panacea."

The doctor shook his head. "No…no, no. They hunted them, sure—"

"—But duh currents are impossible dis time o' year," concluded Korcha, rubbing the back of his head vigorously.

"—And the fact that the panacea won't be enough…not for their venom. That specifically requires their neutralization mucus."

Serge furrowed his brow, nonplussed. "D'wha'?"

With a feeble gesture of his hand, the doctor said, "Uh, the best way I can describe it is that a hydra'll poison its prey and neutralize that poison with mucus from a specific gland in their throats. They only do this when they feed their young, so they don't poison their offspring, and the glands remain dormant until the hydra lays eggs."

Now as much inquisitive as he was bemused, Serge leaned forward. "Do ye' mean only a mum…cun…"

He didn't finish.

With a helpless shrug of his shoulders, the doctor splayed his hands out. "Yeah, man. This means that even if they weren't extinct, the chances are pretty bleak."

Defeated, Serge got up and made for the door. He was numb, overwhelmed by a swarm of fragmented thoughts. In the background of the cacophony, he heard Korcha had said something about high odds and the moral dilemma between saving—or leaving behind—someone you barely even know.

"Hey, wait a moment, man!" cried Korcha that received no more than a half-attempted glance from Serge. "What're ye' gonna do?"

Serge didn't answer.

As he stepped out into the bright sunlight, he heard Korcha continue shouting and the doctor trying to quiet him.

What could he do? Was there anything, anything at all?

Without knowing where he was going, he moved back towards the village proper. He was aware of the growing number of people around him, but he didn't truly see or hear them. His eyes roamed, his body felt like rubber, and his mind felt like it would explode. What could he do? He had lost his mother, his Leena, and now he was going to lose Kid, the only link to sanity he had left. He felt empty.

Useless.

The sea breeze ruffled his hair and blew across his bare chest, oddly soothing his frayed nerves. The sun was continuing to climb towards the center of the sky, its heat increasing exponentially as the day moved towards midmorning, and would continue well into midafternoon. Serge had no idea where he was going as he walked past people and demi-humans alike, just trying to get away from the clinic and the barb of worthlessness and pain that fate seemed so willing to deal him time and again.

The heat continued to rise as the sun continued its westerly passage. The ocean sparkled, light glimmering on the languid waters as Serge sat on the dock with his feet submerged. He tried to let the peacefulness absorb him so that he could think, but the closest he came was an unsteady balance between queasiness and disquietude. Every now and then, a fish would drift up and suckle on his toes, mistaking them for food. A fondness inside of him remembered the many days he had spent doing exactly what he was doing, except without the intensity of his predicament.

Many ideas drifted into his mind, but he discarded them almost as quickly as they came, leaving emptiness behind that was from the lack of inspiration that failure derived from, even before the chance came to act. There had to be a starting point in which he could move from, because if he had the chance to take action into his hands, he'd be able to make it step by irrevocable step towards bringing Kid back around, or at the very least, avenging her by solving the puzzles his own fortune was riddled with.

Thoughts of the manor came back to him then, overwhelming him with the strangeness of the entire ordeal. The self-proclaimed prophet and the demi-human seemed to shed different lights on the same situation. This realization was easy to come by when they both tended to know so much more about _how_ he had gotten here or _why _he was brought into a world he no longer lived in. It wasn't that Serge readily accepted that there were multiple realities, only that in the numbness of it all, the facts stood to merit the likelihood instead of reject it.

He had a difficult time trying to focus on any one particular situation when he was bombarded in so many directions with differing views of his fate or future. In retrospect, he didn't know why he had agreed to accompany Kid to the manor in the way that they did. It would have been so much easier if he had just approached it as a guest instead of as a thief. But in the end it all worked out well enough, he supposed, considering that every answer was nothing but a bundle of more questions and riddles that branched off sporadically in every which way.

_Angelus Errare_: Where Angels Lose Their Way.

_The Assassin of Time_.

Both of those ideas seemed so distant and irrelevant in his present position, since he couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around one of the thoughts, let alone those coupled with direness of Kid's ordeal and his being thrust into a time when the life he had no longer existed.

He sighed in resignation. How could he cope with any one thing when his head was swathed with so many different junctures?

And that was how she found him. A long-haired blonde with two bottles of ale one hand and a small bucket filled with ice and more bottles in the other. She sat down and nudged his shoulder with hers, offering him the bottle. He gladly accepted and continued to watch the ocean to hide his awkwardness.

She broke the silence first. "Hey, figured you could use a drink. I know that when things get rough for me, a couple of brews tend to settle me down so I can think properly."

A twitch at the corner of his mouth was the closest to a smile he could come. He took a drink that turned into a gulp as he realized how thirsty he really was.

"I'm Orlha. I tend bar here in Guldove."

"Serge o' Arni."

With a smile, she took a pull from her bottle. "I like that place. It's so…quaint. I guess the difference is that Arni isn't as much of a trafficker as this place is. A lot less tourists go through there." Slipping off her sandals, Orlha placed her feet in the water and leaned back on her hands. "So you're a fisherman there?"

"Yeah," he said, leaning forward to cradle his drink. "Use tuh love reelin' in d'fish, heatin' out in duh boat all day lon'."

"Yeah, I bet that's real relaxing. A vacation while working, that is."

Their conversation started to soften Serge's demeanor, and eventually, he was capable of drifting in and out of pointless conversations and silence peaceably with Orlha. They worked through a few ales and had been silent for the better part of an hour when the sun kissed the ocean.

"When I was a girl I was always plagued by this belief that I had a part of me removed when I was born. Like a half of my soul was missing. Even now I feel that way, but I've learned to live with it, even though it hurts awfully bad sometimes." She paused for a moment, but when Serge didn't respond, she continued, "The person who helped me most of all was the Oracle up in the Shrine, which is kinda funny since you chose the very spot right beneath it to contemplate."

With a bemused look, Serge eyed the smiling lass.

"The reason why I'm saying this to you is because I know that look in your eyes. I may not know what you're facing or even begin to understand it, but I can see it's deep and serious. Maybe you should talk to her; maybe she can give you some advice, as long as you're not disappointed if she can't give you answers."

"Thanks," he said, looking up at the underside of the platform just above them. "Fer all o' it. Been a while since some-un talked tuh me wit'out throwin' me in a mix o' things dat I cunna begin tuh figger out."

Orlha leaned over and gave Serge a brief but firm hug. "Sometimes that's all that's needed. Anyway, I should get back. The fishermen will be comin' in for drinks soon, and I need to make a living, you know?"

Now he smiled.

"See you around," she said, carrying the bucket filled with empty bottles in one hand and her sandals in the other.

After she had gone, he looked up at the platform one more time before getting up himself. He stretched and looked around for the ladder that would take him up to the top floor. It dawned on him as he was nearing the conical shrine that he felt grounded and at ease, as if Orlha had known exactly what it was that he needed most at that moment.

Small wonders.

The guard on duty looked at him briefly before returning his gaze to the sea. Serge placed his hand on the wooden paneling for a moment before stepping inside. At the back of the hut was a large fire in a stone pit, something that threw his senses off since he knew that they were in a tower made of hide and wood. Two women sat at a makeshift desk that was littered with objects and parchments that he couldn't even begin to guess at.

The younger, taller woman looked at the young man and gave him a fleeting smile that warmed him nonetheless. But it was the older woman's eyes that resided hidden in the generous hood of her robes that held his attention. Unknowing if he should say anything, he approached cautiously.

"Come, boy. I can see that you wish to say a great many things, but first let us find a beginning, shall we?" the robed crone said in a dusty voice.

"I los' me way," slipped from Serge's lips before he could stop himself, and it startled him to realize that it was honestly the truest statement he could have ever made.

The crone straightened up somewhat and rolled the bones and tablets on the table with her fingertips. As he came to the desk, he noticed that there was a rug at the base and knelt there. Now he could see that the objects beneath the old woman's fingers were etched and painted with symbols.

"There is a gentle—but strange—air about you, boy. Lost your way, indeed. Speak to me so that I may better understand your worries."

Wetting his lips, Serge composed his thoughts. He figured he should be honest with the woman and ignore the belief that she was an Oracle. The offer that Orlha had given him just a short while ago seemed the best course of action. Maybe it was advice that he needed more than anything else.

And so, he spoke: "Duh othuh day I woke up 'ere, tuh dis place. Dunno where me mum is, duh girl I 'ad dinna know me, an' a grave dat's claimed tuh be me own. Some-un helped me an' now she be dyin' down at duh doc's, an' strange people be sayin' stranger things tuh me 'bout me future."

Before he could stop himself, the words were pouring out, fragmented and out of place in the timeline in which they happened. He didn't know if she really understood, but he figured that if he got it out, then maybe he could focus on a single one long enough to figure out a way to move on.

A strong waft of incense filled the smoky confines, adding its charcoal aroma to the place. The younger woman waved the smoking stick around a few times before setting it into a tray. She repeated the process as Serge watched her. The crone drew his attention back to her.

"Ah, yes, the strangeness makes sense now, but this wind is something that I've heard of through tales and myths. Tell me, wind-bearer, where was it that this phenomena occurred?" she asked as she picked up the bones and tablets one at a time with one hand.

"Opassa Beach," Serge answered. "Cunna y'help me wit' a way 'ome?"

The crone shook her hand and the rattling of chips resounded, then she tossed them onto the cloth that covered the desktop. "Hmm…Unfortunately, I cannot answer why such things occur, and I cannot reason how you may return from whence you came."

Dejected, he lowered his head.

She continued just as the young woman returned to her seat, "There is a beginning to everything, boy. And with it come the reasons as to why, yet they may only give you riddles in the dark as opposed to lighting the way. But it is a beginning nonetheless. We call this the Land of Genesis." Extending a gnarled finger at Serge, she said, "It is the place in which one must look if they were to try and beseech the answers, whether by mind, body, or soul. We all start alone and without knowledge, but there at the birth of it all lies at least the fundamentals needed to move forth."

Confused and feeling just as uncertain with the crone as he had with the old man and then the catman, Serge struggled to come out of this situation on top as opposed to being buried under the vague or fantastic statements. "_Angelus Errare_."

The old woman gasped. "Wh-where did you hear that?"

"Some bloke in Vipuh Manor," he responded.

With a moment spent in silence so the woman could compose herself, Serge seemed to have hit the head of a nail of something important. A connection between the two people had been made, but he had no idea as to what it was that this newfound revelation meant.

"Well, it seems right enough. That is your beginning and that may also be the bridge between these—ah, shall we say—dimensional distortions. If you've the key, then you may be able to return home."

"An' Kid?"

She was quizzical for a moment before the meaning triggered itself, and with a vague statement, she answered, "Sometimes the coins you spend may seem random, but can be for the same purpose."

Night was beginning its reign as Serge left the shrine, almost as befuddled as he was before, but at least now he had an idea as to what it was that he had to do. He just needed to think a few more things through beforehand. When he crossed the bridge, he saw Korcha climbing up the ladder with a little redhead girl in tow.

As the two met, Serge stopped, not speaking as Korcha said to the girl, "Go home now, sis. I'll be back soon."

While she was walking away, Serge rubbed the back of his neck. "Ne'er gotta chance tuh thank ye'."

Awkward and standoffish, Korcha folded his arms across his chest. "No prob, man, hope ye' figgered out whatcha gonna do 'boutcha frien'."

With a heavy sigh, Serge turned and placed his hands on the railing, looking south across the ocean and islands. He could see the cape where Arni was located and the edge of Fossil Valley, but the stretch on the horizon was nothing but a jagged strip of darkness.

"I be thinkin'…duh marshes dun 'ave hydras 'ere…but I think I be knowin' where's some may be," Serge said, suddenly becoming as vague as the prophetic people were to him, as if their knack for riddling their knowledge was contagious.

"Thought yer from Arni. Dem marshes ain't had hydras fer a long time now." The tone of Korcha's voice belied his impatience with these people who were supposed to be just simple customers. "Duh marshes be poisonous, to boot. Summin' in duh hydras dyin' out gots in duh water an' air, if what d'doc says' true."

With a curt shake of his head more to himself than to the other young man, Serge suddenly inquired, "Where's Guile?"

"Dropped 'im off at Termina, why—wassup?"

"An' me things?"

"Back at me place—again, _why_?"

Now Serge looked at Korcha, "How's 'bout makin' monies?"

"Whatta ye' gonna do 'bout yer frien'?"

"I need tuh get 'ome firs'. Den I cun figger it out."

With an aspirated sigh, Korcha asked, "When ye' wanna leave?"

"Now. Lemme get me gear."

If anything, Serge could at least head back to Opassa Beach and see if these visionaries had it worked out the right way. If there was a way back home, he knew that he would be able to do something for Kid because in his world, the marshes weren't poisonous at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: Blind Man's Alley**

The entire venture at sea was kept in silence while they made their way from Guldove to Termina. In the span of the few hours it took, Serge dwelled on his next course of action. Guile was more than likely at the Dragon's Tail tavern, and he figured that if it could be done, he would get Guile to accompany him to Arni. The motion of the small boat rolling with the current soothed his frayed nerves, which allowed him to think. The path he had set himself on was a long shot, but at least it was motion instead of inertia, and that was all that truly mattered.

Kid may die, but at least Serge knew that at least he was trying something. While she had been there with him from the start of this fiasco, he found that he couldn't just sit around and wait for something to happen. He knew that eventually he would have to make an effort towards some end, and she was as good a reason as any to start on that path.

The lights of city could be seen from a long way off, a beacon of hope that raised Serge's morale and making him antsy. As they drew closer to port, various boats of both shape and size pulled in and out of the harbor, revealing a type of nightlife that small towns never had the luxury of knowing. It was a good omen. Sounds of civilization started as at a din and gradually escalated to a riotous ambiance, reminding him that there was a concert being prepped and that festivities were going on.

Korcha used a paddle to draw his boat up against the dock to let Serge jump off. For a brief moment they stared at each other. "I be back in three days, an' if ye' ain't here, I'll be back ever' eve."

Serge steeled himself and nodded sharply. He had paid well for these favors.

Hesitantly, Korcha said, "G'luck." Without waiting for a response, he pushed off from the dock and turned the boat around.

The dock he was on was empty with a perpetual growth in bodies and noises the further along the harbor's main dock he traversed, since the massive steamship that housed Nikki and his band was moored just outside the lanes. The ramps and stairs he took to the fourth level where the tavern resided was packed with loiterers, drunk on either spirits or the festivities. It was almost impossible to make out the door to the Dragon's Tail with the amount of people blocking the path, and he had to push his way through to get indoors.

The density of patrons didn't let up once he was inside and it took him a good while to actually get to the bar at the back, making him wonder if the layout of the tavern was a slipup or if it was a deliberate way to shy away the less hearty of customers. Another good chunk of time passed as he waited for his drinks to arrive, which he spent searching his surroundings for Guile. He was no better off when his drinks arrived that he took his shot of rum immediately and ordered another of both.

It took him a few more moments to get adjusted to the ruckus so that he could discern different conversations people were having. He drank his ale while overhearing talk of the debacle at Viper Manor, but the variations were slightly amusing considering that the rumors created usually ended with the intruders dashed across the rocky shore below or cut down by the General and his Devas. It was only so far from the truth since they had jumped and that Kid was dying.

When Serge was halfway through his pint, his second set of drinks arrived. He paid out for the round and downed his first drink. The second shot of rum was taken before he left the bar area, carrying his ale with him. He figured he should scout the back wall and its booths in search of Guile, inquiring to a few barmaids about his whereabouts in the process. Eventually, he struck gold when a server pointed him in the right direction—a booth situated near the back which offered the illusion of privacy. It was only after she had left that he realized that she was his server the first time he was here.

For the second time Guile was interrupted as he was trying to woo a large-breasted woman. His consternation at seeing Serge standing there gave him pause as to who he was going to ask to leave.

"Figgered y'all like t'know what 'appened tuh 'er."

"Well, as it stands, our business has adjourned—if only the celebration of it," Guile said, attempting to smooth over the situation. The apathy from Serge made him sigh heavily and gesture to the empty side of the table. To the woman at his side, he said, "Could you be a darling and fetch a wench for us. Then run along, my little flower, for I will find you later this eve. I shan't miss the opportunity to watch you bloom," he added when she began to pout.

The reversal was beautifully executed and she left to do his bidding with a smile on her face and a sway to her hips. To Guile's credit, he faced Serge immediately as opposed to watching her depart.

"How is she?"

"Dyin'," Serge said curtly.

Furrowing his brows, Guile placed his hands flat on top of the table. "But she was fine. How did this happen?"

Nursing his drink, Serge let the burning sensation of the alcohol ease him from the inside out. This was why he had chosen to drink that night. It numbed the edge off of everything, making it bearable to handle. "Hydra poison on d'blade."

Guile moaned and closed his eyes for a moment, at which point the barmaid approached the table and took their orders. When she left, he asked, "What now?"

"Eh, dunno, really." Serge was being honest. "Word 'as it dat ain't nobody 'as anythin' strong 'nough fer a cure."

"And hydras are extinct. What about the mainland?"

With a shake of his head, he crushed the idea. "D'folks in Guldove says duh tide're too rough dis time o' year. Even if we's gets out there, who's tuh say we'd find it fas' 'nough? She only 'as seven days."

"Damn." It was breathed out.

Serge concurred with a nod, wanting the direness of the situation to sink in.

A shake of his head, then Guile inquired, "Why tell me?"

Their drinks arrived, halting any immediate response. With a halfhearted toast, they both threw back their spirits before continuing the conversation.

"What if I gots an idea?"

A short laugh came from Guile before he took a drink. "Lady Luck does not seem to be on your side, my friend. What makes you think I would think of signing up with you again when it will more than likely lead to our inevitable deaths?"

"Myst'ry."

"Heh. Okay, suppose I humor you. What do you have in mind?" the long-haired man questioned.

"Y'know duh weird things we be gettin' from folks 'bout me?"

"Yes…" It was said slow and careful.

Serge leaned forward and set his drink down. "Iss true. I ain't from 'roun' 'ere—least ways not like ye' are. Anoth' worl', an' I think I jus' found d'way home."

"You must be joking," but even as he asked it, Guile knew from the look on Serge's face that he was being exceptionally serious. With a whistle, he said, "I have a bad feeling about you, Serge. Like you are going to be the death of me. When do we leave?"

"On d'morrow. B'fer dawn. Gotta slip through d'graveyard wit'out duh guards knowin' we's dere."

"Okay, why would you want me to go with you in the first place?"

Serge took another drink before answering. "D'marshes ain't poisonous where I come from. Meanin'—"

"—That there are still hydras there," Guile concluded.

"Aye, but dere's a prollum."

"How did I not see this coming?"

"It mus' 'ave youngin's," Serge said.

"What?"

Serge sighed. "Look, I ain't know 'tall, but wha' I gots was dat duh hydra mus've youngin's. Dat's where d'cure'll be foun'."

Shaking his head again, Guile mused, "You really like to make things difficult, huh? At any rate, I have prior engagements to attend to—sooner now, since we are to depart early in the morn."

Serge had a headache as the two stood before the monolithic skeletons of Fossil Valley. The queasiness from his previous pass was still so vivid. Rolling his shoulders, he faced Guile who was calm and immaculate. Serge couldn't help but wonder if the venture through would be as disarming as it had been for him.

The encampment at the foot of the valley was nearly deserted, except for a single lone soldier on guard duty. The dragoon was awake but wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. His fingers worked over the keyholes of a whistle—though what sort of whistle, Serge did not know, having no real understanding of music or its instruments. The quiet notes filled the air with a soft, fragmented melody as they slipped along the outer perimeter, between the stone wall and the tents.

Darkness soon took over, leaving the traveling pair to venture in near-blindness. No breeze reached them on the floor of the ravine but they could hear the distinct moaning of the wind's passage through the clusters of fossils at the top of the peaks. All humorous daydreams about making Guile uneasy were sucked away from Serge as the winds blew, allowing his imagination to create ghosts of the draconian races mourning the end of their remembrance.

This new addition to the oddities of Fossil Valley were weighing heavily upon the younger man's that he had forgotten that his companion had never been through here before, especially not at this hour of the day, and he was quickly reminded of it when Guile stepped upon the first rivulet of tiny bones and cried out.

"Kinda 'as s'own soun', don't it?" Serge whispered gravely, offering Guile what he hoped was a sympathetic look.

Guile looked ashen. "Those are not what I think they are."

A twitchy half-smile was the only reply.

With a shaky hand, he pointed his finger at the young man and said, "I will not subject myself to this." And with that, he took a deep breath, regulated his breathing, and slowly began to levitate just a small distance off the ground.

For some reason, Serge found this amusing. "Yer a pussy."

The camp at the opposite end of the valley proved to be just as easy to avoid detection as the first, and soon Guile and Serge were walking out of the western woods and into the plains just as the sun crested the valley.

Over the course of the early part of the day, they traveled across the grassy plains, constantly surrounded by the mountains, oceans, and copse of woods. The immediate sounds were more akin to land-dwelling animals but there was an obvious undertone of sea life just out of sight. With the blend of earthy and pastel colors mixed with the unique symphony of life, the southern half of the island was soothing and lovely in its inertia.

As the sun reached noon Serge led his companion into the shade of the trees, which was cool and refreshing. Soon after, they reached a small spring. During the course of the rest break, they conversed little and ate the bread and cheese that Serge had brought with him. Before departing, they refilled their canteens.

Within an hour they stood at the edge of Lizard Rock. Serge was standing completely still, staring ahead at the mound of trees and earth in the distance. Opassa beach was there, waiting. Guile saw the look upon the young man's face and decided to quietly wait for him to lead the way. Presently, he eyed the terrain ahead of them and saw it for what it was: a place littered with water-filled potholes, jagged protrusions of coral, pits of sand, and an array of large boulders that appeared lopsided and covered in dried, crusty sea plants.

Serge's voice broke through the taller man's thoughts, "Hov' an' jus' follow."

Serge waited long enough for Guile's feet to drift off the ground before he set off at a brisk pace. He weaved around and jumped over potholes, keeping his feet on not just stone but dry rocks. Whenever he came close to clipping a starburst of coral, he would snatch a hold and twist around. Guile on the other hand, could float across in pretty much a straight path. Never once did Serge slip or fall; and he seemed to have the place memorized.

It was only when they had reached the far island shortly after, Serge stated that the opposite path appeared easier to travel, but it wasn't the same one he was used to, and so he didn't want to chance it. Sitting down with his back to a tree, Serge took a gulp from his canteen and caught his breath. With something that sounded like 'It's now or never,' he stood up and moved on.

The secluded beach was eerily quiet with only the sound of the tide on the sand. In the distance, a chain of islands could be seen as a faint blue that differed from the shades of the ocean and the sky. The palm trees offered shade up to a pace from the water's edge. Everything seemed natural and unmarred by footprints in the sand.

"So what exactly are you expecting to find here?" Guile asked, keeping quiet despite the fact that nobody could hear them.

Instead of answering, Serge took cautious steps to the brink of the shade, as if he were afraid something would happen. Guile stood back and watched silently. It seemed as if the young man was overreacting but from experience, he knew that at this point, it would be best to just let the boy do what it was he thought he had to do. Constantly stopping and moving position, it appeared as if Serge was scrutinizing the ground, testing each section of the beach for some sort of discrepancy.

And then it happened.

A thin tendril of green rose from beneath the sand and licked Serge's calf. The young man froze, but then moved closer as the vine retracted. It flowed forth again and thickened into a black rope edged with a greenish filament as it wrapped itself around his leg like a lover. More veins of blackness and light emerged without disturbing the sand, caressing his legs, but slipped off of him without being able to gain purchase. As Serge took one more step, a pool of swarthy jade spread beneath his feet, but like before, the energy slid off of him with no other action happening.

After a few moments where nothing further happened, Serge stepped back and away from the energy source, a bit dejected. Now he faced Guile and shook his head, appearing not to notice the look of awe on the taller man's face.

Guile found his voice. "Are we in your world now?"

"I dunno. Doubt it. Dinna feel d'same way as befer," Serge answered, looking forlornly at the place where the distortion had occurred. "Remem' duh ol' man from d'mansion says summin' 'bout where angels lose dere way?"

"Yes. I remember. What was it he called it again?" Guile tapped his staff against his leg in thought. "Ah, yes, it was _Angelus Errare_."

A vague nod of concurrence followed Serge's next words, "Aye, well…dat ol' crone at duh shrine in Guldove also says t'me tuh go tuh d'Lan' o' Genesis—where 'tall started."

"So this is where it began." It was a statement, not a question.

With a shrug, the young man murmured, "Aye. She gots kinda funny when I mentioned _Angelus Errare_, as if I knew summin' I shoul'na. She also says summin' 'bout a key an' buyin' things dat dun go wit' duh udder may go togeth'."

A puzzled look came over Guile's face. "What?"

Aspirated, Serge said with hands up in surrender, "I be needin' a key—ain't knowin' wha' else. Think Imma hard tuh unnerstan'? Try bein' in me shoes."

"Alright, alright, I apologize."

With a heavy sigh, Serge shook his head. "Dunno. Coul' go fer Lynx."

"What about Kid?"

"Whatcha wan' me t'do, eh? If I cunna get back t'me own worl', how'm I 'pose t'get a hydra?"

Guile raised his hands again as if to ward off Serge's anger. "Look, I am trying to figure this out with you, Serge. We need to work together."

Aggravated with his only lead being squandered by riddles and lack of information to answer them, Serge was losing his nerve. To be patient was one thing, but it was too much when he was given nothing but vague explanations that led only to more questions. Not for the first time, Serge wished with every fiber of his being that he could find just one person who would lead him in the right direction _and_ move him forward.

In all honesty, the crone at the shrine had given him a good piece of information, and so had the old man at Viper Manor, but it only led him to a dead-end. The distortion in the Space and Time Continua was very real, albeit it had not taken him back. And again he asked: then what good was it if he couldn't access its power?

"Lynx," Serge said again, this time with a driving force starting to build within him. Excited at the sudden realization, he spoke his mind to his comrade. "Lynx 'ad d'poison—so we cun 'sume dat he gots duh cure!"

The energy was contagious, and in no time Guile was getting as giddy as Serge was, because it was a good course of action with strong conviction. "So is it to the manor again?"

"Mebbe. Figger we's go tuh Termina. Las' night folks're talkin' 'bout dragoons leavin' d'place by duh bunch."

Guile was pensive for a moment. "That is a good place to start. It will be night by the time we get back there, and that will leave us four or five days to find the cure with one day to return to Guldove."

The return journey through the valley posed a much smaller task than it had that morning. Guile had proved to the soldiers on duty that he was a magician working on the set for Nikki's concert and that he was bringing his cousin along for the show, which was the reason why he was traveling up from Arni instead of sailing into the Port of Termina. All he had to do in return was get autographs for the soldiers when they came by after the concert. This was readily accepted by Guile, who said it wouldn't be a problem to have Nikki and his dancers sign a few extra portraits.

By the time the sun had completely set, they were within sight of Termina, which seemed to be growing livelier day by day. The visage of the city still amazed Serge each time he saw it. He had seen more of the world in the past couple days than he had in his entire life; and something told him that he would end up seeing a lot more of it before this ordeal was done.

Once again Serge found himself in the Dragon's Tail tavern, drinking with Guile. They nursed their ales while eavesdropping on the conversations around them. The fiasco with the break-in was still a hot topic, but another story was cropping up more and more, the fact that there were a large amount of soldiers that were leaving by sea. The only problem was that nobody knew _where _they were going, since the ships that left port were heading both north and south. The ignorance of the commoner became painfully obvious when so many claimed that there was going to be an invasion. It stood to show that these people had absolutely no idea that the General was very much like a king in El Nido; there was nowhere that the army was _not _revered, let alone welcomed. If there was a chance of invasion, it would be to the northwest towards the mainland, but there were no ships heading for the straits, and the currents were only favorable in spring and autumn.

After the third round, the pair was less optimistic about Lynx's location, having debated full circle as to whether or not he left with the dragoons or remains at the manor. The place began to empty out, setting the atmosphere to a dim, filthy shadow of its former self. Guile had left to void his bowels, and when he returned, he seemed a bit flustered. Serge's heart leapt into his throat as he waited for the other man to tell him what was so exciting.

"There is a couple of dragoons over there having a bit of a heated discussion about the situation—specifically the relocation of the army. Apparently one is being shipped out while the other is staying."

Leaning over to get a clear look at who Guile was referring to, he saw one man leaving a table and the another rather loathsome. Even though the two were dressed in normal attire, Serge had to wonder if they were the ones in question. He inquired as much to Guile, whom concurred. That was when Serge realized that the remaining soldier was none other than the young man who had offered to buy the bellflower.

Serge got up without an explanation and made his way over to where the brooding man sat. It took Serge placing his palms on the table in front of the blonde to get him to look up. Slow recognition slid into his green eyes. With a single invitation from Serge, the two came back over to where Guile was sitting, and instead of picking a side of the table, the newcomer grabbed a vacant nearby chair and pulled it to the edge.

"What are we drinking?" Guile inquired, scrutinizing the young soldier.

"Parrot Isles."

The others looked at each other with amused curiosity.

"A bit frilly, eh?" Serge had to ask.

"It may be what the feed these soldiers in basic training."

The newcomer's expression hardened.

"Eh, mebbe we teach good drinkin' 'abits?"

Guile mused with a sigh, "It may be too late. Get these ladylike drinks in your system and next you know, you cannot stomach the true art of manly drinking."

The soldier's countenance for the banter at his expense had finally expired. "To be honest, good sirs, I had not come here to be harassed because of my choice in drink by ignorance."

Serge made a face to Guile, who in turn spoke with a laugh, "Forgive us. We were merely trying to lift your spirits. Truthfully, what is this…Parrot Isles?"

The dragoon placed his hands on the tabletop and seemed to be gathering himself, even though he spoke clearly without delay, "Amber and white rums, bourbon, dragonfruit juice, and a twist of lime."

"T'be 'onest, mum's d'word."

"That does sound rather tasty."

"And what, praytell, where ye' partaking?" the soldier asked facetiously.

Serge mumbled his answer.

"'Twas what again, sir?"

"Rum 'n' ale," Serge amended.

"Oh. So basic liquor is _manly_ drinking, is it?" the blonde man mocked. "Well then, mayhap we chance a little luck on me drink." He beckoned the server over and ordered three of his drinks.

"At any rate, my name is Guile," he said with a gesture towards his companion, "and this is Serge."

"I am Glenn."

"And what is it that you do, Glenn?"

Glenn leaned back as the drinks arrived, allowing the woman more room to work with. "I am a soldier. A part-time affair at best, but when one comes from a family as mine, 'tis no wonder we are soldiers by profession."

"Ah," said Guile, "it must get a bit tedious when we are almost always at peace. Then again, in this sea, who is there to war with anyway?"

Glenn gestured to the pair to try their drinks. With the sounds of approval from both the others, he knew that he had won them over. "Not as foul as one may assume, is it? There is plenty of alcohol as well, enough to cinder a lady's skirt."

"Be easier dan strippin' 'em off, t'be sure."

They all laughed.

"At any rate," said the soldier, "there is much more to soldiering than war or even combat. We are essentially sitting on an archeological mine. So that is a basic for what armies are for: conquering and controlling."

Guile was pensive. "So what we have is conquest for control of our tiny sea?"

"Aye, precisely. What ye' have to understand, sir Guile, is that General Viper understands these things to and fro, and if he had not taken swift command of El Nido, then some other will."

"Like Porre."

"Correct."

Taking another drink, Guile wagged a finger at the blonde man. "You are very well educated—hell, informed also—for a soldier. Certainly you are far too young to hold high rank—no offense."

Glenn shrugged. "None taken. What you probably understand is that the doors of knowledge are open for any one whom wishes to seek them. In this case I have more avenues of information I may access, thus I am capable of deeper knowledge to the fundamentals of our military campaign."

Guile sat back and folded his hands across his stomach. "I know this has been a question many have inquired of you, but I must at least try: where is it, then, that the army is off to? I mean, since not a single boat is heading for the mainland, thank the heavens."

"We-e-ell," Glenn said, eyeing his drink as he dragged out the word. He took another drink to come to his decision. "I suppose I am at liberty to say where, since I know naught why. A vast majority of the army is being stationed at Fort Dragonia."

The location caught Guile's interest as he suddenly leaned forward, not bothering to hide his interest. "But _why_?" He quickly dismissed the question with a curt wave of his hand. "Forgive my rhetoric, but the question is so strong. I mean, that place has been abandoned for a while now, has it not?"

Again the blonde shrugged. "Over a hundred years since any person has been inside it. From what I've gathered, they had locked the many gates and threw out the keys. There is rumor, though, that the Porre official was the one whom convinced our General, and that idea I shan't like to see the outcome to."

"So obviously you do not care much for this…official." Guile asked more than stated.

Sitting back, Glenn smirked, looking from Guile to Serge and back again. "'Twould be a prudent guess."

"Sabotage?" asked Guile.

"Invasion?" Serge chipped in.

He held up one hand to fend off questions while taking a sip of his drink. "Enough. There is much to be questioned, but I doubt that the General would be a fool of such to allow a cat to slip into the henhouse."

With a smirk, Serge muttered, "Pun."

With a full-fledged grin, Glenn conceded. "Aye, well, too many of these and let us see how well ye' hold ye' tongue."

"Seriously, do you imagine foul dealings with him?" Guile inquired.

"With? I am leaning more towards _from _than _with_." A heavy sigh broke the sentences as Glenn furrowed his brow. "To be honest, I like this naught, how easily he has infiltrated our command system, whether his intentions are pure or not."

"What if we claimed that his agenda differs from that which he has stated to the General?"

Glenn was a bit apprehensive and slowly said, "I'm listening."

Now Guile looked over at Serge, and a look passed between them that Glenn picked up on. His own confusion began to grow as he said, "What? What is it?"

Wetting his lower lip, Serge looked over at Glenn, staring for a moment. He must have seen what it was that he wanted, because his decision came readily. "Y'really wanna know?"

The look he received answered it all. And for the next hour, Serge proceeded to explain the scenario to Glenn, up to and including the situation at the manor, which took a short while to defuse Glenn from arresting them on the spot. After the story was concluded, the soldier then fired off multiple questions that had been boiling up inside of him. His disbelief quickly dissolved as the information he hadn't explained to them fitted into the situation.

Glenn then explained to them, in depth, the amount of effort was being expended from Lynx's own personal coffers, instead of Porre's government or militia, to search high and low for the Frozen Flame. The fervent way that the demi-human sought the relic was infectious enough to not only capture the interest of the General, but to get him to open up his coffers and extend military powers to Lynx.

The only question that wasn't answered was why these two men were searching for Lynx to begin with. Glenn inquired about that, which brought about such sternness from Serge that rivaled the ardency of his story.

"Kid's been poisoned. Hydra. An' d'way I sees it, Lynx'll 'ave a cure on 'im—or wit' 'is stuff." When Glenn didn't answer, he thought continued, "An' I was figgerin' I coul' ask ye' tuh search fer it in 'is room."

"Ye' mean steal it?"

Glenn was shaking his head so ferociously that Serge had to quicken his pace, since Guile was too thunderstruck to be of much use, since he had no idea that Serge was heading down that line of thought. "Look, man, she's dyin'. I'd rath' save 'er den worry 'bout takin' summin' from 'im. I'm askin' fer yer help. _Please_."

Glenn exhaled a sharp breath and shook his head again, this time it was a slow, thoughtful movement. "I must've had too much drink tonight—but alright. Let me see what 'tis I can find. But ye' must give me a few days. I have to not only find a way in, but a time to do it."

Visibly eased, Serge nodded a few times, taking a drink to give him something to do. By this point Guile had come around, and he was looking at his companion with a newfound respect.

"And what, praytell, will ye' do if there is no antidote?"

Serge shook his head. "Dunno. But I'll prolly go after Lynx."

"To what end?"

At this point, the two young men locked stares, and Serge answered honestly, "Whateva' it takes."

"To what? Revenge the death of a comrade? Go home? Acquire the Frozen Flame? Closing off loose ends is one thing, and I shan't begrudge ye' that, sir, but if ye' are looking for power, then I must say that I cannot and shan't help ye'."

"Nah, it ain't dat way. I ain't wantin' power or wealth. I los' me life somewheres back dere. I ain't lookin' fer much but answuhs, howevuh d'come."

"Then there is something that I wish of ye' in return," said Glenn, looking between the two of them. "I want in on this."

Guile shrugged. "Very well, then, you are in…to whatever end."

The next two days were tedious, each hour dragging by more slowly than the one before it. Serge knew full well how little time they had left to try and save Kid's life, and the only option they had was so thin that at any moment it felt like the twine that they all held onto was about to snap. It still seemed like their task was as promising as finding the antidote here in this realm, which wasn't something they could place faith in since hydras had been extinct for so many decades, from what they discovered. If only they had been able to use the rift in planes to return to Serge's homeworld. At least that way they'd be better off than they were, but everyone had to play with the cards they were dealt, whether they liked the idea or not.

Guile had done wonders with preoccupying his young comrade, constantly putting him up to the task of figuring out how they were going to take on not just Lynx but the Acacia army as well. The library only offered so much about the past dealings of Fort Dragonia, but they did at least find out quite a bit of information about its surrounding areas, specifically Mount Pyre, which was adequately dubbed a fiery hell. With the lava floes and sporadic quakes, it was a nearly impossible terrain to pass over, which led them to wonder how so many dragoons were crossing that chasm of molten rock.

Their days were also spent rumor-gathering as they could, and at night they were huddled around a table trying to discern fact from fiction. For the most part, it was easy to shed away half of the gossip around Termina, but it was the left over pieces that were questionable on what the nugget of information they obtained was. Casual debate tended to lead to a more philosophical arena that left Serge much more edgy and bitter than Guile would have liked, and at that point the conversations tended to be cut short.

Glenn reappeared in the afternoon with nothing to show for his long absence. He was as disheartened as Guile was with not being able to help Serge out in his dilemma, even if he had only ever met the woman briefly. With the lack of medicinal treatment to cure Kid, they decided that their best course of action was to head after Lynx.

As Glenn led them to the piers, he quickly explained to them their benefit in sidetracking to visit a good friend of his family's, and a military man at that. He had stressed the issue so well and for so long, that they had relinquished a few seamen of their craft and had already covering the sea between Viper Manor and Earth Dragon Isle. Since this detour was only stopping by an island north of where they wanted, they had no problems with it, if only because Serge had fallen into a brooding melancholy that kept both Guile and Glenn well away.

A plume of smoke rose from the center of the island like a miasma in the darkening sky. The sun was already staining the sea a bloody red and shadowed land looked like bruises by the time they had slid their boat onto the sand. The island itself was well fortified, being surrounded on all sides by cliffs and mountains with only a narrow slit of runoff sand that allowed access to its interior. The mountainous rim of the island shaded them from sunlight, and if it weren't for the vegetation and the ocean, the scene would have been too similar to that of Fossil Valley in the early hours of the morning.

"Come," said Glenn, "we should go see if Radius is about."

"There was a fire burning earlier," Guile commented.

Glenn shrugged his shoulder and readjusted the way his pack sat against the buckler strapped to his back. With a half-smile that belied youth, he set off up the sandy slope. The other two followed behind him until the seawater was no longer visible. The smell of burning wood became stronger, and this gave Glenn pause. The tightness in his posture and the way he angled his shoulders alerted the others that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Putting on a burst of speed, the three came around the final bend and raced into the tiny meadow. The acrid scent and power of the heat staggered the trio; and the devastation froze them in place. There was a great mass of charred blackness backed up against the stony walls of the dwelling. What used to be a gargantuan tree was now nothing more than a heat-blistered trunk that had been cracked and shattered, its large pieces smoldering on the baked earth. Sheets of smoke twisted and rose, stifling and suffocating in the summer air.

Stunned, Glenn could only manage a hoarse whisper, "What…happened?"

The light from the meager flames and embers danced with shadows, toying with the distortions that concealed more than exposed. A ripple of visibility waned, becoming three-dimensional in its emptiness, and gracefully colors bled across the shape, tinkling with the sounds of many bells.

"_Harle_?" rasped Glenn, his eyes furrowing in consternation, his whole body a mixture between tension and feebleness. "What happened, milady?"

"Her."

Everybody turned towards Serge as he spoke.

A slow, easy smile came to Harle's lips, and when she bit the corner of her lip, she tugged on her piercing with her teeth. "Ah, Serge…have you missed me?"

"What are ye' saying, Serge?" Glenn asked.

Still staring at Harle, he said, "She did it."

Bemused, Glenn turned back to the woman. "Does he speak truth, Lady Harle? Could ye' have done this?"

A shrug and a loft of her brow was the soldier's answer.

In a voice that was almost a growl, Glenn demanded, "What have ye' done with Radius?"

"Oooh, Glenn. So fired up." Harle looked slowly over the three men, wearing a smile that was more like moonlight than sunlight, sprite-like and subtle. Her eyes eventually rested on Serge and she asked him, instead of Glenn, "Do you want to know why I did this, Serge? Burned this place to the ground? Sir Lynx is very, _very _upset about his losing you when you were there in his grasp. So in a sense, this is a lesson to you."

"A lesson?" barked Glenn, dropping his pack to the ground. "He knew naught of the Acacia dragoons, let alone its Devas!"

Facing the questioner, she half-smiled pityingly. "All of you are tied to this one way or another. It slows down his approach, and it stymies a revolt before it can begin." With a wag of a finger at Glenn as if he were a schoolboy, she said, "Toy soldiers should learn that initiative is key."

Fury lined the scarred youth's features; his eyes sparkling emerald with it, unstable in itself and matching his sneer. Without pretense, Glenn approached Harle and drew his sword. The look of dainty surprise was evident on her face, but she did not cower or beg him off. He swiped in a downward diagonal arc and as she jumped back, her feet glided over the burnt grass without touching ground.

Now Glenn charged forward. Harle hovered back and then lifted into the air, out of striking distance. Serge and Guile began to flank Glenn and she quickly took in the odds. The tension in her body built as wisps of gems of starlight spun around her frame. Guile had the presence of mind to shout out that they should find cover, but it was too late. Discs of kinetic energy were flung from her hands. One hit Glenn full in the chest, causing his leather armor to ripple with the impact, and it sent him sailing back. Guile leapt off to the side as the disc sent towards him blew apart the earth in a shower of cinders and dirt.

Serge readjusted his Swallow as he watched the woman as she brought her attention to him. Glenn groaned and struggled to get to his feet. The tendrils of energy continued to swirl around her body as she eased herself back to the ground. "Should I fight you, too, Serge? Do I have to? I have this soft spot for you and I shan't wish to hurt you."

Serge kept his eyes on Harle as he pivoted and lowered the forward end of his Swallow. "Pleasuh 'n' pain, darlin'."

The ground trembled and burst apart beneath Harle's feet before they could touch the earth, sending her balance askew while she was still airborne. Serge charged in and swung horizontally. She tossed her arms up to protect herself as she tilted, luckily pushing up the flat of the sea shell. The momentum of the Swallow sent her crashing into the ground in a flurry of jingles and chimes.

Harle spat and rolled away from Serge as he approached, shimmying back like a crab. When she staggered to her feet, she was about to draw into herself again, but with a quick look to Guile, she darted away as his wand vanished. A gasp from Harle and a sickly resounding crunch of wood being impaled could be heard.

Harle raced at Guile as he was about to snap his arm up, but instead he curled them up to protect himself, and that was when she stepped in, raised her foot, and booted him firmly in the groin. As he staggered and buckled over, she drew into herself and as the ribbons of starlight began to form around her, she snapped her arms in front of her in a cross-action. The result was two discus' imposing the same space as Guile's midriff, and it sent him flying back with echoing crack as the space continuum fought with two masses occupying the same space.

Spinning around, she was about to release a saucer at Glenn, but Serge was there, slicing her along her abdomen with the edge of his Swallow. A hoarse, shocked breath was forced out of her mouth as she fell back. Serge kicked her flat in the chest, sending her crashing into the ground again.

Glenn limped to where the two were, keeping his sword up despite his obvious agony. Serge was just staring at the woman, closing the distance every time she tried to put space between them. Through her sporadic breathing, she closed her eyes as if welcoming her fate, and then her body began to lose its color. Serge made to strike but stayed his hand, and his indecision allowed her body to lose its shape, until the ground no longer had to bear her weight and she was gone.

After a moment, Serge stopped staring at the place where Harle had vanished. He and Glenn helped Guile to the edge of the premises where the smell and debris was more tolerable. In the light of both moons, the three sat recuperating in silence. Guile had his body stretched out, resting against a boulder with his eyes closed. Glenn sat with Serge; the latter unblinkingly watching the ground a pace in front of his feet, twirling his Swallow on its point.

"Glenn?" inquired a man from further down the sandy path.

When he turned to face the summons, Glenn exhaled sharply. "Radius. Thank the gods ye' are a'right."

They shared a brief embrace.

"Miss Riddel had let slip that Lynx was taking control, sending his minions to remove any obstacles that weren't under his thumb. I decided to make myself scarce, and it seems they had paid me a visit."

"'Twas Harle, Radius," Glenn said, looking over his shoulder to Serge. "We owe our lives to him, almost single-handedly taking her down."

Radius widened his eyes in surprise. "Is that so?"

"There is more, sir," the scarred youth said with a tiny smile, "he took on Karsh…and won."

Now the elderly man stared openly at Serge, running his hands through his thick white beard. "How did this one slip through our fingers? He obviously has the makings of an Acacia Deva."

Now Glenn was shaking his head. "There is so much ye' know naught, sir."

"Then let us go inside and figure this out." Radius laughed at the shocked question in the dragoon's eyes. "I built this place with ye' father, young Glenn. It holds more secrets than meets the eye. Come, gather ye' comrades. I will open the way."

Glenn and Serge helped Guile move back across the destroyed clearing, to the remains of the tree. Radius was leaning over the open hole in the center of the trunk. Glenn knew full well that the tree had been hollowed out and used as a home, but he had no idea that there was a subterranean segment of the old man's abode.

Radius lit a few lanterns and guided the still wounded Guile to the table in the center of the main room. Placing the light sources in certain places brightened up the interior. "I figured that this stronghold survived, so until I can figure out what to do, I suppose I will have to just stay here."

"What is Lynx plotting?" Glenn asked.

"To hell if I know. All I know is that he is looking for the Frozen Flame, but it seems to me that he is spreading his agenda out further than just that."

"Why's he aft' ye'?" questioned Serge.

Radius scrutinized Serge for a moment before placing his elbows on the tabletop. "I once wielded a sword for the Acacia Dragoons."

"He was a Deva," said Glenn.

"Whassuh Deva?"

With a smile, the old man scratched his bald pate. "As I said, I was a dragoon, but there is a supreme class of warrior that is called Deva. There are only four at any given time, and they are the most trusted by the General. Those of caliber are sent to Porre on the mainland to train. A tour of duty. 'Tis where Glenn was sent, which he just returned from."

A look of fondness was given to the young man. When he looked back to Serge, he was speaking again, "Over fifteen years ago, 'twas myself, Garai—Glenn and Dario's father— and the blacksmith Zappa fought side-by-side with the General who was, at the time, a Deva."

Guile rasped out as he leaned forward, "Your brother was _Dario_?"

Something akin to embarrassment mingled with pain spread across Glenn's face.

Radius moved on to save the youth from further inquiries, "When Garai died in battle, I kept my word to watch over his boys. When Dario graduated to Deva and Glenn off training for the Devas, I finally retired."

"Lynx was on the ship with me when I returned to El Nido," Glenn said, looking at the others.

"When he spoke first to Viper of the legendary Frozen Flame, the General wrote me and asked for my opinion, I told him what I knew of it. 'Tis rumored to cure all ailments; fulfill all dreams. I cautioned him of taking in someone in their search for this treasure, specifically a one from Porre, whom we are now on the brink of war with.

"What is he plotting? That I know naught, except that maybe 'tis Porre whom wants this legend in its hands—since Porre is a country built of militarism, ravaging the continent of Zenan. They claim peace and unity as a glove over this iron fist of theirs."

"But why would the General allow a snake like Lynx into his midst? I do not understand why he would let a high ranking official from Porre—whom is searching for the Frozen Flame—get within reach of all of our information. If Porre invaded, his knowledge could be our undoing."

"That is correct, Glenn, but ye' must understand that the General has tried to build the Acacia army out of the same antiquated mold as that of Guardia. He is a peaceable man, but maybe his trusting nature has within it the seeds of this army's destruction," Radius said.

"Which, in a sense, leads to the overthrow of El Nido as a whole," added Guile, and the old man merely nodded.

Serge leaned forward, "But dinna say dat Lynx's usin' 'is own coffers t'fund dis instead o' usin' Porre's?"

Glenn snapped his fingers. "That's right. So it may be that he is buying an alliance with the General."

"At which point, ye' should be careful if ye' wish to take on Lynx." Serge became Radius's sole focus, "Fore beware, ye' may be engaging in war with not just him, but the entire Acacia army as well."

A strong sense of foreboding rested heavily upon the room as a thick silence ensued. Still watching Serge as if he were calculating his motives and potential, Raidus allowed himself a moment of contemplation. Finally, when he spoke, his voice was soft, holding no judgment or preconceived notions, "For ye' are planning war, are ye' not?"

Serge forced himself to look into Radius's eyes. He didn't answer directly, but it was enough for the old man.

With a sigh that belied his weariness, he asked the younger, "What did he take from ye' that is of such import that ye' need to go against the likes of such a dangerous man?" The length of the question was a soothing expanse that not only got the entirety of his inquiry but also helped explain to the younger man that he still was not being bias.

Serge then gave an abbreviated version of the ordeal that he had already been through, having already spent the entire day composing his response for just that very question. He had omitted much of the more fantastic occurrences that had happened, and focused more on Lynx's hunt for him as well as Kid's dilemma when she tried to help Serge find answers.

Throughout the entire explanation, Radius simply listened to the story. By the end of it, he continued to stare at the young man long after he had fallen silent, and something in his eyes said that he knew there was so much more that he was not being told.

Glenn suddenly spoke up, slapping an open palm on the tabletop. "That reminds me. Radius, do ye' have any knowledge of the manor holding an antidote for hydra poison?"

For a moment, Radius was thoughtfully silent. He shook his head. "No…not that I am aware of. Did ye' try Luccia? I understand her field is bio-weaponry, yet 'tis still chemistry."

Conceding with a sigh, Glenn murmured. "No, I have not. I should, though. I already stole through Lynx's rooms, but I found naught but clothes and elements."

"Lynx's belongings?" the old man questioned.

The dragoon nodded in concurrence. "Aye. Serge figured that if he had the poison, then he may have the antidote. As cunning as he is, I shan't put it past him."

"Riddel did mention in passing that she had absconded with a few of his personal effects…" Something dawned on the old man as his gaze abruptly darted from man to man. "After she had Luccia test the blade for poison! Do not look at me like that—I know naught the mind of that woman; she is much too clever for me."

Glenn glanced sidelong at Serge. "On the morrow, we should sail back. I have a feeling that Miss Riddel has what 'tis we seek." With more vigor, he added, "We may save ye' friend yet!"

As they woke up the following morning, they were greeted by a dense fog that offered only a few paces of visibility, stranding them on the island for another day. Their food supply was inadequate for their sudden extended stay, since Harle had destroyed the top of the tree, which also burned Radius's food supply, albeit the old man had found a few jugs of mead in the subterranean storage room.

Tension was rising as the fresh lead had all but turned to ash due to the delay. It was an unspoken truth that soon enough they would be counting down hours as opposed to days for the longevity of Kid's life, if she hadn't died already.

The group of men reverted to solitude because their short tempers sparked many arguments. Night held little solace except for drinking, which they did in abundance. Radius soothed their worries, saying that he would leave with them when the weather cleared up and restock his dwindling supply.

Luckily the morning brought clear skies and heavy westward winds, which would speed their return trip to Port Termina. They spent the better part of the day battling the strength of the sea. It forced them to focus solely on the task of maintaining the boat and its course, leaving little room for conversation.

Upon docking, Glenn departed quickly, saying that he needed all the time he could manage for the roundtrip. This left Serge and Guile to restock their supplies and find a way to pass the time. They were unable to discuss future endeavors because they had backtracked on a whim to see if Glenn's original task could come to fruition; and if it couldn't they would be a day behind schedule to hunt down Lynx. That train of thought was just as daunting in itself, because they were faced with the volcanic Mount Pyre, let alone the fort that followed.

Early that night, Glenn met up with the pair at the Dragon's Tail tavern. He weaved between the thick after-dinner drinking crowd, finding Serge and Guile sitting towards the back of the establishment. The din inside was borderline unbearable; they had to almost shout to be heard.

"Why is it that ye' two always find the worst spot in this place?" Glenn asked rather loudly when he finally got to their table.

"It was the only spot available," replied Guile.

"Come. Let us get out of here."

Finishing their drinks, the pair got up and followed Glenn outside where the summer heat slapped against them. The noise outside was tolerable, but only just. They pushed their way towards the docks, and when the mass of bodies thinned out, they were finally able to speak.

"Did you speak to her?" Guile asked Glenn.

"She was there, and I received this," the soldier said, extracting a small wrapped bundle from his pack. It was a mahogany box that was lined with various vials of powders and liquids that were snuggly fit into indentations on the lid and base of the velvet-lined box.

"Also, ye' should know, both of ye'," Glenn began, his tone serious as he looked between each of them. "The reason why Riddel sought Luccia's aid was because when Lynx attacked, he may have been aiming for Kid, but 'twould have been the Lady Riddel whom had been injured. Kid saved her life at the cost of her own. She then stole this and more in retaliation."

"But why would she do such a thing?" was Guile's query.

A wan smile appeared, adding decades of age and depth to the young soldier's countenance. "The one thing ye' must understand about the Lady Riddel is that she is a very unique person. She is much like a saint; always there to express gratitude and see past fault and flaw in a man—always forgiving him for his sins."

"Sounds like a wonderful woman."

"Aye, dat she does," Serge said. With a puzzled expression, he asked, "Ye' gots it, d'cure?"

"I believe so. There is no guarantee, but 'tis a chance we must take if we are to try and save ye' friend. Time is running out. We have naught the time needed to test these," said Glenn.

"Look, Serge originally bought passage from Termina to Guldove when he first arrived here in search of the antidote, but he has not arrived this eve, and apparently has not any night he has said he would. The records indicate that only larger trade vessels have come from Guldove."

"So we need transportation," Glenn said. "Very well, let us find us a boat."

Guldove was a sparkle of lights that was so small and comforting by comparison to the headiness of Termina. The size of the population made the village seem far more distant until they were within a stone's throw of the docks. It was nearing midnight when they finally arrived. Despite the hour, there were still a small cluster of people still awake, specifically towards what could be considered the village's center.

The clinic was on the same platform as the docks, and when they had moored their boat, they could see clearly that there was still a light on inside. They walked briskly across the planks and entered the clinic. Serge automatically took the lead as he veered to the right. The front room was empty, including the beds that lined the walls. They moved towards the back room, but from the gaps around the curtain, they could see that it was dark beyond the threshold.

Serge was whispering to himself but he didn't realize it, although the other two could hear him begging that it was not too late, that they still had time. When he pushed the drapes away and entered the darkness, the other two made to follow, but they stopped when they noticed that Serge hadn't gone very far inside the room.

Serge clenched and unclenched his fists ineffectually. His head lowered as Guile placed a hand upon the younger man's shoulder. No words were passed as they stood there. Glenn rubbed his thumbs over the smooth wood of the box. They were the only ones in the room; each bed was made and untouched, immaculate in the moonlight that seeped in through the cracks in the curtains. In the near darkness, no one could see Serge crying, but even if they had, they wouldn't begrudge him for doing so.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: When Tomorrow Comes**

Glenn placed a hand on Guile's shoulder, the latter turned his head without fully looking at the shorter man, and after a moment he removed his own hand from Serge's shoulder. The two left, forlorn etched across their shadowed faces, and allowed the young man time to him. For his part, Serge just stared at the empty cot, then to his working hand. He felt numb, stupid, as he watched his fist ball up and open again ineffectually. And then he would look at the cot again—sometimes hopeful that Kid would materialize out of thin air, like the blonde angel, at least in sleep. But the dark and moonlight were his only companions.

No one came to relieve him; no one interrupted his vigil. Eventually he walked across the last part of the room d sat down on the edge of the bed, the one that once held her. Serge sat there as if she were still there, though he didn't go so far as talk to a figment of his wellworn imagination.

The need to avenge Kid churned beneath the heavy weight of just wanting to go home. He had no idea if he would ever see his home world again, and he had a sinking feeling that this one would never be a home. Not now.

Brushing his palm lightly over the surface of the blanket, Serge idly wondered; the thoughts themselves were fragmented and semi-coherent. Flighty half-things that caught his attention but wouldn't drift by long enough to gather any true meaning.

The sound of the drapes being drawn aside tore through the wreckage of his mind. With slow, jerking movements, Serge turned head and body to finally see a blonde woman standing half-in and half-out of the shadows. Was it her? Could it be? His heart skipped a beat despite the fact that he realized it was Orlha before she even spoke.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said in a hushed, sympathetic voice.

No delay was given as she went to his side. There was a moment when she may have been about to say something, but she sat down instead. With a hand lightly on his knee, she finally did speak.

"I had to come through your bodyguards to get here, you know."

His confusion was shining through the internal pain he felt.

And so, Orlha amended, "Your friends. They're loyal to you. They wanted you to have all the time you needed to mourn." He turned away and she squeezed his knee, continuing without rushing, "But I think some fresh air and a drink will do you well."

There was a noncommittal sound from Serge as he stared at the cot, at nothing.

"Come," she urged a bit, accentuated by a gentle tug of his arm. When he didn't move, she stood and repeated the process.

Now guided outside, Serge looked blankly ahead, not acknowledging Guile or Glenn, even when the soldier tried to quietly—valiantly—defend his honor. Orlha shooed them off and beckoned them at the same time. She was back to coaxing Serge along as they walked the docks and bridges towards the main gathering area.

The makeshift stalls were gone now, and more fires burned in metal bins set upon thick leather hides. There were few people about, a mixture of both humans and demi-humans; they were coalesced together as if the bindings severed by the Acacia army had had no effect in Guldove. The darkness of the ocean banked on the docks, lingering just outside the firelight; it was a drastic opposite to the view and feel of the village's center during its daylight hours, albeit the vastness and aloneness were palpable in both extremes.

Orlha lead Serge, and Guile as well as Glenn, alongside the edge of the bar, passing its entryway to eventually deposit them at a now-vacant table. The clinic doctor stood from the table to allow them the seats, but only Serge did—even that was done by the will of dominance that Orlha administered kindly onto him.

She left to speak with a server and the doctor was assaulted with questions from both of Serge's companions, where the soldier took his lead from the magician. The doctor waved them off, looking to Serge with emphasis.

Orlha returned after the man disappeared into the tavern. She smiled a bit. "I have to run for a few. Do me a favor and make sure he doesn't jump off into the sea." This was stated to all three men as she gestured nonchalantly to their near-comatose friend.

And on queue Serge looked up with a blank expression.

Glenn began to protest, but the silver-haired man stilled him.

"Good," she said sweetly. "I'll be back shortly." As she was walking away, she turned around as she backpedalled. "Why don't you explain the box to our doctor here while I'm away?"

Glenn looked down at the box he was still holding and gave it a good, long stare before letting his gaze drift over to Guile who was watching Orlha drift into some nearby residence.

"What's in there?" the doctor inquired.

"'Tis the poisons—and what we hopefully thought were the antidotes—which Lynx used," replied Glenn.

The man who had disappeared into the bar returned to the table with a tray of drinks. After dispensing them, he nodded and left; only saying "Sirs." Their conversation continued.

"May I?" inquired the physician as he accepted the case from the soldier. He continued to speak as he looked over the contents now in his possession. "This demi-human carries a lethal weapon if he carried the poison. While I know the panacea is near priceless, so is the venom of a hydra to a killer."

"We figured that—well, Serge did—that the antidote would be within his stores of poisons. 'Tis a logical assumption," stated Guile, taking his own mug in hand.

"That it is," concurred the doctor as he examined different vials by holding them up to the firelight. "How was it you came by these?"

A look was shared between both soldier and magician before Glenn said, "A friend of mine acquired them."

The doctor slipped the recently examined vial back into its nook, closing the case with genuflection. "You know about poisons?" he asked the two men. "Well, what is taught is that there is a cure, somewhere, for it. This is the belief from those in my field that science and medicine will always prevail, given time. Time mainly is never on the side of the infected, unfortunately. So what you have is faith in science—in medicine." With a shake of his head, the doctor became morose as he murmured, "Aah, the wonders of the modern world."

A breath, and then the physician continued: "There has been a cure-all antidote all along. This panacea is created from the remains of a hydra. While the varying looks you give me show that you remember a bit of what I spoke about before, so I shouldn't need to press the importance of this upon you. Yet, it does seem that each vial here is a poison matched with its anti-virus. It would not surprise me very much if he housed some of the most sinful drugs within that box."

The doctor held up a hand as Guile was about to speak. "I must run tests first to be sure, but what I feel is that you have a bonafide treasure trove on your hands. And if I am right, most of this should have been harvested from hydras."

The scarred youth couldn't contain him any longer, his honor making up for him being the latest addition to the hodgepodge group. "Meaning we could've saved her!"

Through the whispered cry, Serge looked up to Glenn, the gap between emotions bridged.

"This was a condition from the start," hissed Guile, gripping the other man's upper arm in a fierce grip. "Let us not fret Serge more than we already do!"

Glenn shot daggers at the doctor as if he were to blame for their ineffectiveness, although the somewhat amused expression on the physician's face made the soldier feel no qualms about it. "What're ye so smug about?"

The doctor brought his eyes back from behind the pair back to the soldier's face. "No you don't understand. You've so much more than you realize. There's enough wealth in this box to take on the entire Acacia army."

Glenn snorted. "To purchase the uses of the Acacia dragoons—let alone the Devas—is more than a country's worth, let alone the year or so 'twould take to conquer what 'tis ye sought."

"You misunderstand me. I do not mean rent; I meant _buy_. The entirety of the world is at your beck and call, if I am correct—and _that_ is worth praising."

The physician had constantly been looking past the other men as if trying to delay the moment. Guile saw it first, and when he brought it up, the doctor shook his head with a faint smile. "The point, my friends, is that you have much, _much_ more here than you bargained for."

"You said that before," snapped Guile.

That was when Orlha stepped up to the makeshift table, attempting to gain Serge's attention without touching him. His companions saw what was happening and that helped pulled the young man from his stupor. "Hey, you. I've got someone here that wants to say hello."

The change in the tide proved too much as Serge swiveled his gaze around to the blonde—only to see another flaxen-haired woman with blue eyes. There was an expression that passed over his face that revealed how he would have disregarded the image if she hadn't spoken first—if she hadn't touched him on the arm.

"Hey, mate, heard y'ain't up to no good wit'out me."

It was too much for him. The dam broke as he jerked to his feet and scooped Kid up in a hug.

"Oi! Lemme down, ya goof!" Kid cried, slapping his back with her fists. When he set her down, she adjusted her white linen gown. She was muttering something to the effect of what good, decent folks would think about her in such a position.

It broke the ice for both magician and soldier, but Serge continued to stumble over an explanation to Kid, to let her know that she hadn't been abandoned. Try as she might, he wouldn't let her get an edge in word-wise, and it took Orlha nearly manhandling Serge into his seat to get him to shut up.

"She knows—or at least she will, in time," stated the older woman firmly. "But you need to relax, Serge, before you throw yourself into an epileptic shock."

There was a broad grin plastered on the physician's slim face. "Kind of what I was saying before about what you have. Sit, sit. I'll run a few tests tomorrow to identify these vials."

Orlha joined them at the makeshift table as everyone shifted to accommodate the newcomers. "We've been needing some good luck with the run of bad things going on here lately," she said with a gesture towards Kid.

"What do you mean?" inquired Glenn as he propped his sheathed sword against the wood-paneled wall of the bar.

"Well, Lynx had come through this way a couple of weeks before the incident you folks had up at the manor, and…well…" Orlha propped her elbows onto the table while she cradled her mug between her palms. "The thing is that we don't _know_ if he stole the Dragon Tear or not, but I'm banking on the bet that he did. It's too much of a coincidence, since he came and left, and we noticed it missing."

Now Guile spoke, "Oddly shaped blue gem inside a metal casing resembling flames?"

"Huh?" Orlha blinked, and when it sunk in, she slapped her palm flat on the table. "I'll be damned! That's it!"

"Saw it up at d'manor when we slipped on in," said Serge, stealing a glance at Kid as if the topic was a soft spot with her.

There was no need as she smiled wistfully. "Thought it was duh Frozen Flame meself, at firs'. But what's he wantin' it fer anyhow?"

Orlha shook her head as the doctor chipped in, "We do not know. But when that other stranger passed through, we thought he was going to be trouble. Instead he saved Kid's life."

Both Glenn and Guile inquired about the man. The blonde man shrugged and leaned back. He pursed his lips in thought. When he started to speak, he leaned forward again, brushing his bangs behind an ear.

"Well, first off, no one knew he was here until after he was here. Used a ferry, not a motorized boat or skiff. When he came into the clinic, he inquired after Kid. Said he heard about her at the pub. It's odd, really, since we put it together that you guys were the ones who broke into the manor. It was Orlha's call on not giving you up. So Kid's condition—hell, her presence here—was kept a secret."

"And none of us said anything to him about her when he came in." Puzzled, Orlha added, "And he ordered a drink but left it full when he took off. I could've sworn he drank some, but sure as not, he didn't so much as sip it."

The doctor continued when she was done speaking. "His peculiar way continued with me. When he asked about her, I tried to stall him with my own questions. I didn't want dragoons to get a hold of her if I could help it. But he assured me that he wasn't from here, and when I questioned him about the mainland, he smiled a bit and said that he wasn't from _there_ either. So he wasn't a part of the Acacia or Porre armies. I gave in a little and sought information on a medicinal level.

"Strange, too, because he answered me truthfully and with a knowledge that, if I didn't know any better, felt to me like it was greater than my own. Curiosity got the better of me as I went in for it. I showed him the knife and my tests, and he questioned me on my findings. At first I indulged him; later I was awed by his insights. He had—get this—said that the inconsistencies in my findings were accurate despite the anomalies. He told me that his guess was that it wasn't hydra venom, but a synthetic replica."

Guile whistled appreciatively. "That is indeed a scary thought."

Grimly, the soldier nodded. "It changes war entirely."

"Where'd he git it den?" asked Serge.

The doctor put down his mug. "He didn't say, and I'm not sure he knew. The stranger—who wouldn't give me his name—asked to visit with Kid. With what he said and told me, I didn't feel right rejecting him. He told me he had knowledge of an amulet she wore. When I retrieved it, he idly toyed with it for a while as if lost in thought. Then he set his satchel down and went through a couple of compartments. I thought he might try to take the necklace, but he didn't; instead he gave me a small package wrapped in waxed paper.

"'What's this?' I asked him. He said it was for her, Kid. I then inquired of him as to why he would help, and he replied with 'a brother's duty'. Of course I tried to find out if they were related, but all he said on the matter is 'she is not my sister.' So, then I assumed that he knew her, but he didn't answer me. I let him see you, Kid, and he spent the better part of an hour with you. I heard him talking quietly, but it was too soft for me to catch any of it. When he left, he had put the necklace around her neck. He never asked for payment."

"That _is_ strange," muttered Guile.

No one said much of anything for a while.

Later, while it was still night, though the time was moving into the early morning hours, Serge and Kid sat alone on the edge of the dock, their feet hanging off and into the water. There was a cool breeze blowing.

"So we're goin' aftuh Lynx," Kid stated quietly.

Serge merely nodded.

"Good, 'cause I wanna git 'im back fer dis."

Turning his head some, he looked closely at her profile lined by the light of the moons. "Wha's wit' y'two anyhow?"

Sighing, she continued to stare out over the calm sea. "Far back as I 'member, I'd always been wit' sis. She ran duh orphanage I grew up in." A soft, nostalgic smile twitched, faded. "Dere were a bunch o' us. We ran like mad through d'place. Playin' wit' stuff she invented fer us, an' tryin' not t'git caught playin' wit' what we weren't 'posed tuh be messin' wit'." She sighed heavily. "Damn, was them good times."

Now Kid shook her head, quiet for a moment. Her countenance became stony as she stared across the water glittering with white and crimson lights. "Dat bastard came one day an' jus' burned d'place down." Each word was spoken carefully, as if she tried not to choke on every syllable. "We was left tuh burn alive. But they beat 'er, an' beat 'er. They made sure she couldn't help us."

She stopped again as she swallowed, closing her eyes and turning away from Serge as if to hide her pain. It was a futile attempt. She stiffly refused him when he tried to hold her, but it was a half-hearted attempt from her, because his sympathy was quiet and genuine. He held her against him, her back to his chest, and rocked her gently.

"I watched 'er die," she whispered so quietly. "I 'member dat. Den, I was jus' watchin' me only home burn. Watched it burn from far away."

Kid turned in his arms and looked up with pleading eyes. "He saved me—I dunno who. Oh, Serge, why'd he save me?"

There was no answer, and he could see she was crying and fighting the tears that were staining her cheeks. She looked so much younger and older at the same time. She loosened her arms and entwined them in his, her head crooked in between his head and chest.

"I miss 'er." The words were softly spoken.

He simply breathed into her hair.

Without changing her tone, she asked him, "Do ya miss home?"

Tensing at the words, Serge felt drawn and repelled by the question. "Aye. I do."

"Wha's it like? Like here?"

He gave her a hidden smile. "Quietuh wit'out cha."

Kid pulled back long enough to eye him, slapping him in the arm. "Dat so, eh?"

A soft laugh escaped him. "Thinkin' I'd be missin' it, back home."

"Will ya stay, if y'had duh choice?" she inquired.

Her words were soft but heavy. "Do ya want me tuh?"

Blue eyes flickered away and then she looked back to him. "I—I'm glad yer here now. I dunno how long me luck'll hold out, but I be bettin' it's bettuh wit' cha here."

Serge searched her eyes for something left unsaid, undone, and then he kissed her. She didn't fight him. The gentleness was like a secret she kept beneath the surface. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and as their first kiss broke, she initiated the second. Afterwards, she rested her forehead against his.

"Y'know," the lass whispered to him, her breath splashing against his mouth. "I feel—I dunno—good wit' cha here." A breathy laugh was followed by her stating: "An' I ain't bein' all mushy, bub."

Serge stroked Kid's cheeks with his thumbs. "Whateva happens, dey got Records o' Fate. Figger I should make summat fer yuh t'have."

She wet her lower lip with her tongue. "Memories are bes'."

"Mem'ries fade," he countered.

Kid then removed her necklace, sliding it over the top of his head, cradling the gem in her palm tenderly as she settled it around his neck. She looked at him as his fingertips slid across hers to the amulet.

"Mem'ry," he murmured with a small smile.

She nodded minutely. "Aye; memory."

The sun was cresting the peak of its summit by the time Kid and Serge entered the pub. Both magician and soldier debated fiercely over a game of cards, but it was of a jovial banter; the two had become fast friends in their short time together. Orlha was behind the bar, putting things away. As the beads rattled she looked up to the doorway.

"Hey, you two. Got some sandwiches made up on the table, if you're hungry."

Serge thanked her as Kid plopped herself down at the table and cut off the bickering men.

"Oi, watcha blokes arguin' 'bout?"

"Who is arguing?" asked Guile, shuffling the deck.

Glenn grinned. "'Tis a friendly debate on Table Etiquette."

With a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she cooed, "Cut me in."

Serge sighed mellow dramatically as he sat down to tuck into a sandwich. Guile shuffled the deck again, this time with a flourish. Things got tense for a while. It was the kind of tension that snapped as poker faces melted into raucous catcalls. It soon became apparent that neither of the men stood a chance against kid. She was a hoyden bent on destruction and the targets within sight were their coin purses. Eventually the scarred man leaned back and eyed his friend. "Magic me some coins."

Guile pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. "If I could, I would. I would do so for myself."

Kid grinned. "Fact is, won't do yuh blokes no good, seein' as y'd jus' go on makin' me richer. Ain't dat right, bub?" she asked Serge.

He shook his head and gave a half-smile. "Why'd jah think I sat dis out?"

"Alright, alright," sighed Guile as he flashed a pretty shuffle that had the cards airborne as they flew from palm to palm. In the end, he did a flick of his wrist that caused the cards to vanish. "Business 'tis."

Glenn looked pointedly at Serge. "And one wonders why I inquired of magicked coins."

Serge merely chuckled.

"A'ight, bubs, we've gotta prop'sition fer ya." Kid looked sidelong at Serge, but didn't hide it or the smile that came with it. "Me an' Serg here figger we'd smack Lynx on duh nose like duh bitch he is."

"Female dog," Guile mused as he looked at one empty hand, and then to the other one, "Cat man."

"We understand," Glenn tossed in quickly as if to stave off any ill-will that could have come from the correction.

From the look on the young woman's face, he was dead on.

"_Anyways_!" Kid spat. "Thought we'd give ya d'chance tuh jump on board or sit it out."

"Tricky business, with him being at Fort Dragonia with almost the entire Acacia army at his beck and call," said Guile as he rubbed a fingertip along the rim of his mug.

Kid switched her gaze to the soldier. "An' yuh?"

Glenn shrugged his shoulders. "Wont as we are to get at him, Guile has a valid point. Ye see, 'tis more than the army; there is Mount Pyre and the fabled puzzles within the fort itself. Should we make it there, the way cannot be blocked. 'Tis the only feasible way as I see it."

Serge chipped in, "A'ight, den. Le's walk through it."

"'Kay, there's d'lava," began Kid.

"Depending on how tight the defense is...dragoons will've set up bridges as a means to traverse the floes."

"Glenn has it," stated Guile. "Do we steamroll our way in? As it stands, we would last but a few moments without an army of our own."

"Git tricky or sneak in," Serge suggested.

Glenn sat back, lost with his own thoughts.

The lass leaned forward. "So'd we gots bridges; it's a start. We can use the mountainside, too, if we gotta. So, we git inter d'fort isself."

A smirk tugged at Guile's mouth. Amused, the magician spoke to the trio. "From what is known of the place, it is said that there are puzzles and traps to shun unwanted guests. There is a good bet that the path has been left open. Why isolate oneself in a part, when reinforcements can be locked out?"

The young woman grinned. "Been thinkin' 'bout dis fer a while, eh?"

Guile replied casually, "Glenn and I spent a bit of time on the subject, aye. He is enlightened with military campaigning, and I just another outlook added to the mix." With an arrogant nonchalance, he concluded, "And I do so love a challenge."

"That's it!" the scarred soldier burst out. Suddenly, he was very animated. "'Tis as Serge suggested it. Trickery is the key! If I pose as thy captors, then new shan't be questioned. In fact—"

Kid jumped in, "We'd be taken _right_ on up!"

The blonde woman clapped him gleefully on the shoulder as he nodded his assent.

"Besides the details, it could work," Guile said. "Well done, my friends."

Plans began to unfold, each putting in advice where it could be given, though it was obvious to all that Glenn as the mastermind. He would work with Guile on rigging the shackles, and the gear would be kept with the soldier until they were clear of the troops. They aimed for a guideline that left much up to chance. The dragoon stressed that a fake capture could easily become a real one. Obviously, Kid didn't seem to care. After a couple hours, as they were wrapping up the discussion, a newcomer arrived through the beaded cords.

Glenn looked up and surprise took him. "Radius! What brings ye here?"

The two men clasped forearms. "I bring a parting gift, if ya'll still intend to meet with Lynx."

"That we do," replied the scarred dragoon.

"Well, then, may I?" Radius inquired, although he sat himself down without waiting for a response. "Now, Lynx is no fool. And to be honest, he could very well be a match for the Devas. So, what I figured was that a bit of help on your side could make all the difference. Firstly, I bring elements. I trust that each of you knows how to use them? Good. Secondly, I wish to offer advice on your course of action."

Once it was explained to him, he took Glenn off to the side. As they were speaking, Serge went outside. The air was still hot despite the shade in the late afternoon. It relaxed him nonetheless. A short while later he was joined by Orlha.

"Seems like everything is coming to a head," she said, leaning against the doorjamb, her arms folded across her midriff. "You know I'd go with you if we weren't forbidden by our shaman. Just…if you can, bring the Dragon Tear back with you?"

"Sure," replied Serge. Now he looked at her. "Dunno why y'don't come anyway. We coul' use all d'help we coul' git."

She sighed forcefully. "You must think I'm a coward for turning down your offer."

"Course not."

"Just all this talk floating in about Porre—how Lynx has already infiltrated the highest part of the Acacian army. The shaman wants all available hands here."

"I git it. Ain't gonna sweat it, hon, seein' 'ow y've done so much already."

Kid slipped out of the pub and went up to Serge. "Blokes be gittin' friendly. Too much male blood fer me tastes." She glanced at Orlha with a flicker of a smile before kissing Serge on the corner of his mouth. "Ain't stayin'. Gonna hunt down Mel. See ya tonight."

And then she was gone.

When they were alone again, Orlha stated, "Girl has some deep sides to her."

"Hmm?" Serge came out of his partial reverie.

"Just that she's as crass as they come, but there's a tender side to her. What she shows you, what she shows gives to Mel."

The young man smiled and ran his fingers through his hair absently. "Iss a good side. Both are. Jus'—I dunno…It's hard tuh 'splain."

Orlha placed a hand on his arm. "And you don't have to."

They shared a long, searching look.

"Thing is," she began with quiet hesitation, "I've been thinking about what you said, about how you're from…"

"Anoth' place?" offered Serge.

A smile and a nod came from the blonde woman. "Exactly. Well, you remember me saying I always feel half myself, half alive?" At his nod, she continued, "Well…I know I don't have any right to ask, but, if you _do_ go home, could you find yourself in Guldove?"

"Fer yer sistuh?" asked Serge, facing her, giving her his undivided attention.

Orlha bit her lower lip and nodded.

Now it was his turn; the young man placed his hands on her shoulders. "Course I will."

She couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, she pulled a small satchel pouch off of her belt. Without looking up, she took one of his hands and placed it within his palm. Biting back emotion, she said, "Show her this; she'll understand. She'll know."

With his free hand, he tipped her chin up.

"Thank you," she said.

Their eyes made contact.

"She's lucky to have you." Orlha didn't wait for a response. Instead, she fled back inside.

For a long time, Serge stood leaning against the wall, eyes drifting about, seeing those around him as they lived and haggled, and saw those who weren't present. His mind drifted over the past and the possible future. He thought of his mother and, eventually, of Leena. The pain was a dull ache inside of him, almost as if he had somehow betrayed her by lying with Kid.

Honesty belied the truth; he didn't care.

That night as he was lying next to Kid in bed, he told her about what he promised Orlha. She never stopped trailing her fingertips lazily over his chest as he spoke. It was then he knew she agreed and accepted his choice. It was what she said after that made his justifications for leaving his past behind make sense.

"We'll do dat."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: Brimstone**

It was early morning and the fog was dissipating fast as the heat steadily rose. The chill burned off, and warmth was given to aching limbs. Guldove was still quiet in the early hours, except for the dock near the clinic. A cluster of people stood about, some with their goodbyes and others for their journey. What could have been riotous was quiet, subdued. Council was shared, words and hugs exchanged. It was war that was beginning, war created by nothing but a small upstart cluster.

The doctor was there, his hair held back by a ribbed cotton skullcap. He shared his test results with each of the men, having labeled the contents within the case. Orlha and Serge stood off to the side, quiet and tentative in turn with their farewells. They were the first words they had spoken to each other since their last meeting. Guile bantered with the ape-like demi-human, making her visibly flustered. Glenn and Radius, true combat veterans, were morose and silent and still.

Serge finally got Orlha cornered in their conversation and delivered his promise once again. She hugged him fiercely. What was a tender moment shattered in an instant when a resounding crack echoed across Guldove and the sea. Everyone turned to stare at Korcha staggering back and holding his jaw—whose face was redder than usual—then to Kid as she stalked away from him, all brimstone and fire.

Before Serge could mount any word as the blonde hellfire strode up, Kid spat out to Orlha, "Oi, the _nerve_ o' dat slag!"

Amused, Orlha asked her, "What'd he do this time?"

Utter nonchalance was met by a seething lass. "Him _houdin'_ me mercilessly fer _weeks_! An' he's now sayin'—" and now Kid really took off, deepening her voice in a mockery of the ferryman's—"Oh! Now figger he dies, den ya can be wit' me."

Orlha and Serge, despite all instincts, laughed.

"Iffin' it weren't fer Mel, I woulda gutted him long ago!" squealed Kid.

Trying to control himself, Serge asked her, "Don't she want 'im strung up like a pig?"

With a nonplussed flick of her hair, she followed the comment up with: "Course! 'S why I ain't done it yet!" Now she growled as she sneered. "He's jus' damned lucky I dun kick his arse up aroun' his ears 'til his insides jingle."

They laughed at the audacity of that mental image.

Radius called for them all to board the boat.

The fog had scattered and thinned by the time the party was seabound. Little was spent in conversation—unless Kid's grumbled ranting to no one imparticular counted—as Glenn overlooked the supplies again. Serge spent his time watching the archipelago come into sharp relief, starting with the city port of Termina and then the spine of Fossil Valley as they ventured south. Radius guided the boat further westward to avoid the peninsula of Opassa. As they rounded the southern shores of El Nido's main island, Serge turned his gaze southerly, to Water Dragon Isle.

There was still too great a distance to see the finer details, but what drew Serge's attention was something drastic. Looking for Radius, the young man questioned, "Wha's wit' Watuh Dragon Isle?"

"I don't know," replied the old man. He leaned on the engine compartment and rubbed his clean-shaven chin. "Doubt anyone really does. Stories have it that the Water Dragon God left these shores, and when it did, the whole of the island dried up, dying."

Serge shook his head, as if clearing away conflicting sites. "Change…" he said quietly, stoically.

"What was that, m'boy?" inquired Radius.

Serge was seeing it as he had almost every morning of his youth overlaid with the image he saw from the boat. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Glenn stood up and spoke.

"Over yonder. What could it be?"

The aged soldier made his way to the younger one. "Mist? Possibly from Mount Pyre."

"If it has erupted, there will be no way in," stated Guile, "unless we scale the Graveyard Mountains."

Serge leaned in to whisper to Kid, who had a confused look on her face. "Took 'im through Foss' Valley."

She grinned. "Graveyard Mountains…I dig it."

Cannon fire filled the air with the deep, soul-shaking booms of discharge. At their distance, it was impossible to tell how many ships were engaged in battle. Looks of worry were exchanged. But the bravado of the young woman would not be flagged.

"Ain't an eruption if ships're there," she said. "An' we may git lucky an' sneak by."

After a moment's deliberation, Radius replied, "She has a point."" When Glenn tried to progtest, the elderly man held up a hand to stop him. "We came for a reason. We had no information to speak of, but now we have _something_, and I say we are the better for it."

"Then let us proceed," added Guile.

When they had entered the mist, the party was able to fully appreciate its thickness. The density was so heavy that fewer cannons could be heard, and they were muted when they made any sound at all. Visibility soon became non-existent; they could barely see each other, let alone what was outside of the boat. Aloneness was like a double-edged knife; to be lost at sea—or within the folds of a dense mist as they were—gave a person a sense of separation, though when debris and unarmored bodies began to drift by, the party gained an eerie sense of removal with a holocaust.

The nose of the boat slammed into something massive, but held. The group quickly went ot work at dislodging their vessel, and to find out what it was they had hit. Guile sent his cane hovering in the air, a ball of iridescent light flickering at its tip. The bodies of soldiers hung over the side of the ship, tangled up in ropes as they had fallen. More dead dragoons floated by, pieces of armor broken off and drifting; none of them had been wearing metal, which had dragged their owners down into the depths of the sea.

As they pushed off again, Glenn spoke in a loud whisper that was more a strained version of his normal speaking voice. "Should we help them?"

"We keep going," stated Radius through the sound-devouring fog. The old man gazed at the side of the ship, watching as the mist slid over the dead. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Serge shudder. "We've a task to do. This could be the work of that infernal Lynx or his gypsy harlot."

Knowing now what was out there, Radius and Glenn worked in unison to avoid crashing into any more ships that drifted lifelessly in the murky water. The small boat banked around a third as it drifted between two others. There appeared to be no survivors. They all could still hear the distant sounds of cannons disgorging their loads, and as the boat pulled through the monolithic sides of the stranded—if not deserted—ships, new sounds pierced through the mists; it was a battle. After a debate ensued, Glenn's valor was curbed again, and they trekked on.

The mist waned just before the nose of their boat kissed sand. The natural heat of the shore fought with the fog, turning it to vapors. It was then that the party had known they had reached Mount Pyre. They quickly disembarked as Radius took their bearings. Gear was brought ashore, shackles removed from their casing, and each went about donning their loads.

As Radius returned, the scarred soldier was checking the shackles of each person.

"A good tug will dislodge them, but only outward," Glenn was saying. "As Guile stated, the charms will hold against those whom pull in any other direction."

"If I dinna know any bettuh, I'd say Guile _wants_ us chained, given his preferences."

Guile looked pointedly at Kid as she spoke. "Regardless of tastes, I can honestly say that you suit them naught."

"Prissy an' tittied," snickered Serge.

The magician laughed. "Crassly put, but aye, Serge. Prissy and tittied."

Radius growled at the trio, "If ye are done dawdling, I be thinking this is a good time to move on."

Serge and Guile looked to the younger dragoon, who merely shrugged. With that, they moved forward. Radius took the lead, followed by the pseudo captives, and the rear was brought up by Glenn carrying their assorted gear. The cave loomed ahead, lit up by its own internal source, by lava flows that mapped the guts of the mountain like an interactive roadwork.

As they stood on a shelf of stone, they stared out across the terrain. Though the initial passage was wrought from the cliff face along the westerly wall of the immense cavern, it was obvious that without proper care, the route would be obliterated by vapors superheating the bridges until they collapsed in burning cinders. The transition of light did more to hinder vision than it did to aid it. The flows far below were at times blinding white or a dark brown that the lava did not churn as it moved. Most often the miasma flowed steadily in an ominous reddish orange.

Radius pointed out the first bridge, and as they approached, dragoons could be seen guarding the passage guarding the passage across. They were patient while they waited for the group, given the terrain.

"Halt!" called one of the soldiers. His tone would have been bored if it wasn't for the constant din of the mountain's bowels.

Glenn strode forward as Radius took a position that would cover the movements of their captives. Serge was thankful for the professionalism displayed by both soldiers. "Ho!" cried Glenn. "I bring forth a lot I am certain our Lord will wish in his presence."

"And what would that be?" asked another dragoon.

Closing the distance so that he could speak in a somewhat normal tone, Glenn stated, "I've the villians whom broke into the manor and threatened the Lady Riddel's life." The other dragoons needed little more to convince them. "Surely, ye see the need to present them, despite—ah—other engagements."

"Of course," said the first.

"You may need to wait for an audience," began the second, "though I should believe he would see this as good news."

With that, the group progressed forth, Radius accepting the muted praise and obvious deference of the dragoons as they passed. The next passage sloped down, allowing a greater feel of the scorching heat. Serge, Kid, and Guile shot up their arms to shield their faces as they turned away. The metal of their shackles heated up, singeing their wrists. At a staggering run, they broke across the threshold.

The firing bursts and toiling magma was left behind, if only temporarily. Each breathed a sigh of relief as they took a few moments to rest. They were within a tunnel that led around the western border of the mountain. Braziers lined the walls at intervals, with unlit torches mounted in stands beside the trays of burning coal. Albeit they were cooler, the temperature was stifling, creating a mephitic aroma of burning corpses.

Eventually they moved on. Two more guarded bridges met them, although they were well undermanned. As Glenn inquired of this at the last bridge, he was told that their reinforcements had yet to arrive. They were told to steer clear of the main entrance because of the Devas that blocked the passageway, that the path needed to remain clear because of their unknown objective. Due to their cargo, Glenn and Radius were told to remain along the western route to get by without having to face the three.

An hour later, the party showed up at the split. The dragoons gestured to the left passage and they progressed unhindered. Gaps in the stone barrier began to give way, adding lava light to their passage. It was a long, winding roadway that appeared all too natural to have been carved out by man—or dragon, if the legends were to be believed.

Kid and Serge stole glances through the breaks in the uneven wall. Great rivers of magma flowed steadily on, bursting from springs and then roiling downhill, only to vanish again beneath rock. The party continued on until Serge stopped them. The others came back, curious as to what they were to be shown. A great lake of lava choked and churned. There was a stone bridge that extended out over the lake, created naturally, standing well above the surface of magma.

There was an ear-piercing screech that rose and fell, as if by its own volition. In the distance there was a dragon—in its full size and glory—submerged in the lava itself. Its scales were a golden color lined in crimson. It jerked its great head about as crystal shards slammed into its body continuously. Transfixed, the group watched as cries of pain and anger boiled forth from the monstrous creature as it writhed to escape the onslaught, yet an unseen obstacle held it in place.

"In all my days…I never thought I'd see an actual _dragon_!" the scarred soldier whispered fiercely, sliding his hands longingly over the uneven stone wall.

"What is doing this—ah! There!" Guile pointed to awkwardly through the makeshift portal.

Glenn and Radius gasped in united surprised. "What are they _doing_?" cried the former.

The Devas stood upon the edge of the northern platform before the grotto leading further into the volcanic mountain. Radius pointed each one out. Karsh—who Kid and Serge were familiar with—Zoah who was a beast of a man with little armor save a helm upon his head despite the blazing heat, and finally Marcy who had replaced Radius himself. She was a waif who was more like a boy than a woman, yet she had a sadistic kind of cunning that frightened a lot of people.

She was the one calling upon the elements to assault the dragon as if it were a sport. Her companions tried to waylay her, but their efforts were more aloof and her determination stolid. Catcalls were shot out as she pummeled the beast with ice that tended to evaporate quickly. From the other entryway another creature emerged when the overhang no longer blocked its view. It was dragonesque in shape and a deep crimson in shade. It used its spear as a cane to support its wingless form.

It clapped the heel of the spear sharply onto the rocky surface. "Be gone of this domain!" it screamed out, its voice guttural and fractured. "Ye are welcome not within these halls!" It was a desiccated thing, all aged and withered, yet it spoke with a voice of authority even if it seemed apparent its physical prowess could not match up.

Marcy turned towards the half-dragon, her childish curls bouncing with the motion. A wicked smirk touched her lips as she seemed to have found a new toy to prey upon. She strode across the bridge. Her companions began to approach her, but she started to half-skip and half-jog after the wilted creature. She drew upon an energy that required most to concentrate their will to summon. A glow surrounded her moving form as the planet responded to her need.

One of the many gemlike studs within her elegant arm piece pulsed brightly as the element was harnessed. A swirling mist formed quickly solidifying as it stretched forth, becoming an icicle of massive size as it shot out towards the dragon-like being. Smoke and flames billowed out from the creature as it threw a shoulder down to protect itself. It was like a wing of heat and energy that began melting the projectile before the ice shattered upon impact before reaching the beast. The beast threw back its arm and its makeshift wing evaporated. Harmless droplets of water sizzled as they pelted the elevated stone walkway.

There was only a moment's hesitation as the blonde woman smirked. She narrowed her eyes and strode forward, weaving her hands in the air before her. More elemental energy drew from her body as her fingers worked the newly forming strands in a cat's cradle. She crisscrossed her hands and then snapped them forward; beams of frosting blue lanced forward as she released her charge. The dragonesque lifeform staggered back a few steps as the webbed latticework pierced into its body, its stony scales warping.

It curled in on itself and then, with a deep growl, it threw its arms back. Great tendrils of flames burst forth from its body, incinerating the remaining sapphire strands. Marcy staggered back herself, stunned. It was more than enough time for the creature. It leapt at the waif and slammed down with the butt of its spear onto her foot.

A look of surprise registered briefly on her face.

The beast brought the butt of the spear up into her jaw, causing Marcy's head to snap back. A resounding clack echoed in the chamber. The other Devas rushed forward as the dragon-like being spun his spear around and forward, gripping it in clawed hands as it thrust the head of the spear into Marcy's midriff. Agony rippled across her face as she stared, disbelieving, into the face of the beast. It stared back at her, sneered, and then jerked the spear out at the same moment it kicked the Deva off the blade of the weapon.

She stumbled back, spun, and looked towards her companions. Karsh reached out ineffectively as she slipped and fell off of the ledge. There was no scream as her body plummeted into the lava.

Before her body hit the magma, Glenn charged off the way they had come. Radius cried out to him, and Serge caught the scarred soldier with shackled hands. They pleaded with him to no avail, and it took the power of all four of them to hold the headstrong man back.

"Be _still_, my boy!" cried Radius. "Next station we reach, we will send word."

Glenn clawed and struggled, pushing against all opposition. "The Devas need our help!"

"They are _Devas_, Glenn! And you are not! Dammit, if they cannot handle this, what makes you think _you_ can?"

The dragoon relented, slumping against the others. Stonily, Glenn concurred.

They moved away from the ensuing battle at a brisk pace. They eventually broke free and into the open area in which the fortress of the dragonians was built. The summer air was cool by comparison to the stagnant inferno of the mountain. It took a short while for their eyes to adjust to the brightness of the outdoors. They resumed a steady march that turned into a run from Glenn at times. They traversed the crusted ground, breaking the up-curled shale underfoot. Fort Dragonia loomed above them, its construction immense and ominous; Glenn's driving need gave none of the others a chance to view the architect of the place.

A soldier stopped the dragoon quickly enough. "Halt! How do you come here?"

Glenn exploded into a spiel that had finally gotten the attention of the few dozen dragoons upon the lip of the granite drawbridge. Soon after, most of the guards departed for the main entrance to Mount Pyre. In the failing sunlight, the final dragoon told the rest to find more able bodies to back up the soldiers. When they had fled, he brought his attention back to the prisoners.

"A fine thing you've done. Let us see what we can do to help our Devas." The dragoon looked over the party. "So, whom is it you bring with you?"

Radius began speaking quickly; the issue at hand was warring inside him with his need to aid his fellow Devas and dragoons. Despite it, the retired soldier held his composure well enough that the others were led inside by the single trooper.

The interior slammed home on those least affected by the death of the Deva, specifically the chained ones. Kid whistled appreciatively. The dragoon moved forward as if unimpressed. The room appeared hexagonal, wider at its entryway and narrowing as it rose towards the innards of the fortress. A great obelisk stood within the foundation, connected to the walls of the raised platform. Before it was a fountain, though the water that cycled through smelled stale and infested with sulfur. Standing alone was a rectangular protrusion that had a slanted facing to it. Grooved patterns were set upon its facing while a single one rested upon its horizontal plating, as if something was meant to fit within it. Whatever the case, the panels remained dark.

Radius, not unkindly, shoved each person in turn to get them moving.

The dragoon hesitated briefly as the prisoners entered the main chamber, before he sought out the guard standing at ease in front of a massive stone pillar. The tube itself easily could have fit the previous chamber within it, although it only took the central space of the orifice it resided in. There were five passageways leading out of the gargantuan chamber; the largest being the way they had just come in from. Each other door already glowed with a color representing the four earthly elements, from left to right they shone, their colors following rivulets in the stone to the cylinder in the center. One was yellow, another green, followed by blue, and finally red.

The long moments it took the soldiers to speak with one another gave the others ample time to look about. When the dragoons broke away, the one who led them in beckoned the group forward. The station guard went over to a panel carved of stone and pressed on one of its ebony buttons. It seemed, as the party traversed the immense space, that the floor and walls—everything—was a mixture of granite and obsidian.

The latticework on the floor began to come to life. At first the colors were muted, but their intensity increased until the original unseen patterns began to form on the flooring. Great shots of color went up the sides of the tube—green and blue seen as echoes on the floor behind the pillar. A dim gray shone and then strengthened until a dazzling white pierced out from the opening of the lift within.

A cold embrace raced along Serge's spine as he stared in awe.

The grinding of stone and metal filled the chamber's central area, yet the sounds were lost before they could ricochet off of the distant walls. Even without that, the noise was deep and ominous, voicing an unseen volume of the Dragonian fortress. Only the guards seemed unperturbed by it all. The party was waved inside twice before the copper-armored soldier spurred Radius, and then Glenn, into action. Against their wills, the five went into the light.

When their eyes had adjusted to the searing white light, they saw a room that looked eerily similar to the entrance hall but on a smaller scale. The device in its stone edifice was there, along with a statue of a Dragonian, but the similarities ended there. There was no fountain, and the steps that went up either side led to a shaft three-quarters encased in smoothly carved rock. A tri-star etching illuminated from the platform within the egress; its orbs—one for each star—shone white, indigo, and a vermilion color that seemed unable to decipher its true texture, whether it was to be purple, crimson, or slate gray; the only thing it seemed set upon was how dark it was supposed to be.

The last of them to enter was the dragoon. He pressed a button of obsidian and then waited until the intricately patterned grate sealed them in before activating the lever. The elevator clanked as it rose through the tube. The brightness of the shaft contrasted greatly with the dimness of the corridor that it led to. The grates rattled open and the group stepped out into the hallway that bent left to right.

Unlike the lower level, a myriad of tapestries hung in the hall on both walls. They were old, though there was minimal decay and fading, as if they were preserved throughout the ages. The stonework and etchings along the walls were flawlessly done, showing great scenes of an epic in even the minute of details. Upon closer examination, none showed any humans as the creators, but humanlike reptiles.

The guard moved them on to the left hallway. The doorway at the end held no actual door, and it opened up a view to a series of bridges that varied in level. Their lead man guided them on without hesitation, not even bothering to acknowledge the greatness of this oddly structured chamber. He acted as if it were commonplace, as had quite a few dragoons they had met in passing. The walls depicted monolithic carvings of dragonesque beings in all forms of wardrobe. Some were armored while others wore the robes of state. Each one began as a statue that ended within the recesses of the walls themselves, unfinished.

Glenn approached their guide. "Does this amaze ye naught?" There was wonder in his voice, if not for the dragoon's indifference then for the sights before them.

The soldier glanced at him without stopping. "Amazing, at first, but like all places, it loses its spice quickly enough."

"How could it? It was made by the Dragonians, a civilization that we know very little of."

The dragoon shrugged at Glenn's comment. "Without actual evidence. This is easily a human place—archaic as it is." With a smirk, he looked mischievously at the scarred man. "We've bets on that amongst the dragoons. And human has the favor twenty-five to one." Then he added whimsically, "But who can know for sure?"

Glenn was disturbed by this. "We've proof they existed—look at what separates the archipelago in 'twain!"

"What? Fossil Valley?" asked the soldier, a little less incredulously. "Surely dragons _existed_, in many sizes and shapes, much like us. But we humans _evolved_. There is no proof of a reptile civilization of any sorts. Dens and packs, surely, but nothing—_nothing_—suggests otherwise."

Glenn scowled and he could barely keep the disdain from out of his voice, "So, whether human or Dragonian, ye all lose interest in what 'tis that is here?"

"Pretty statues, to be sure, if you like that sort of thing."

Radius put a firm hand on the scarred dragoon's shoulder and shook his head. They fell back a few steps and drifted into varying states of silence.

It took a while before they stood on the mid-level platform. A small bridge extended out to a dais. There were two guards on duty there, governing the lift. The plate of ebon glass was already glowing with the trinity of colors, the final of the trio as indecisive as before.

"What is that?" Radius asked, pointing a gnarled finger at the fluxing star. The quizzical looks he received from the dragoons forced him to elaborate. "All of the others have been comprised of what we view as the elements. Green and blue; red and yellow. Yet the lift here—and now this one—show White, for the star or sun, and black for raw space; yet that last one is a seventh, it seems."

The inquisition within the eyes of the soldiers never faded. "We are not sure. Maybe an archaic symbol of sorts? That is all we were told."

"By whom?" questioned Radius with a low-level heat.

It may have been the fact that the elderly man was an ex-Deva that kept the soldiers from remarking in a bantering—or off-handed—manner as they did with Glenn. "Uh…by Sir Lynx, m'lord."

Almost snarling his disdain, the former Deva inquired, "And what, pray tell, would he know of this matter to so lightly toss about its knowledge—or lack thereof?"

Each dragoon took an involuntary step back at the fierceness in Radius's voice.

One gathered enough courage to stammer out, "'Twas said in passing, m'lord. It seemed as if he were saying it to himself, it's said. We just passed it along."

It was then that the full force of the old man came to fruition. "Just 'passed it along', did you? And it doesn't strike you as odd to treat the idea of a _new_ element—an essence of the very world we live in—as something to _just pass along_?"

The nervousness of the soldiers became a fear so thick that it choked the air around them. "N-no sir—I mean—we just...Well…"

With a snap of his arm, Radius growled, "Does the pod work?"

"Uh…always, m'lord," one replied hastily.

"Word of Sir Lynx, my lord," another added.

With a quiet whisper, Radius said, "Good. Let me tell you all something of great import: to casually flirt with the power of the cosmos leads to death."

The confusion from the dragoons pierced through their fear. In an instant, the clanking of metal resounded on the stone floor. The guards finally looked up to see the prisoners loose, and Glenn, a fellow dragoon, was tossing the woman her knife. The other two were already armed.

Serge smacked the flat of his Swallow against the helmeted cranium of one guard which caused him to buckle and drop. The guard on the far right was toppled over with Kid upon him, and the blade of her knife thrust deep into his throat. Guile shoved his cane, more than threw, forward, letting its magic create the momentum as the cane smashed into a soldier's face. His nose burst, shattered, in a bloody mess.

Glenn stepped forward, staring at each guard in turn. "To tamper with the world's unknown will always lead to _annihilation_."

Radius, unmoved by the sudden and brutal display, stated, "As a student of mine will surely hold dear to his heart."

"Like lettin' 'em lead but neva givin' 'em control 'cause it shows dere weakness," murmured Serge as he clasped the shaft of his Swallow behind his back.

There was an openly puzzled look on Radius's face as he stared at the young man.

Serge gestured to the guards. "I mean dem."

"I know what you meant, m'boy. What puzzles me is that that is one of my teachings. Who—"

"I know."

"Then—how?" asked Radius.

The young man half-smiled. "Took me a while, wit' yer hair an' no beard, but it be ya who taught me t'fight, tuh use el'ments. When ya left duh drags, y'came ter Arni Village t'be elder when ours died."

There was a barking laugh from Radius as he viewed Serge anew. "That was four years ago that I retired. And, yes, the elder _had_ died, but Miko took the mantle before I decided to take on the task or not."

"Ain't dat funny. Miko still got a sawtooth shark in 'is basement?"

"Nay. A straw man is there now—has been as long as anyone can remember. He's a Mojo follower, I've heard."

Kid gestured at Serge. "Dat necklace. He gave it to ya, dinna he? From th'shark he caught?"

Serge nodded, a single eye squinting at the quiet ardency in her voice. "Aye, some summah's back, he be givin' me dis. Sayin' ter always follow me dreams, like he had. _Dun worry 'bout no past y'ain't changin' or tuh try an' figger out t'morruh, _he said."

"And you have not," whispered Guile, but his voice was overran by Radius's.

"Well, I'll be _damned_! Follow that heart, m'boy."

A fallen soldier grabbed a hold of Glenn's calf, trying to pull himself up. It was a futile attempt that amounted to little more than a quivering grasp.

"Speaking of which," the scarred youth said, nonchalantly using a foot to push the injured man off of the ledge. "We've a date with Fate."

Some watched the dragoon fall, but no one cared.

Kid half-smiled at Serge, but her eyes were hard. "Destiny, eh? Let's git dis over wit'."

"Sounds good."

With that, they stepped onto the platform. It wasn't an elevator; there was a vague sensation of Self being lost, molecular piece by sub atomic piece. The feeling it generated to those standing on the plating was like one's body was tearing itself to shreds, though the cohesion didn't end with the separation, it was as if each body was crying out for the rest of itself to join as a whole elsewhere. Consciousness was strong as they were disassembled and reconstructed on a new dais.

"Let us not do that again," said Glenn, who was shaky and looked like he was about to be sick.

Kid took a bracing step forward. "Whoa—me knife felt like 'twere a part o' me."

"Her arse as _'mazin'_," Serge sighed.

Kid slugged him in the shoulder.

He laughed hoarsely.

"Are you _quite_ done?" snapped Radius.

Kid growled, "Y'ain't gittin' none t'night."

With a sprite-like grin, Serge retorted, "Likewise."

Kid paused as she re-evaluated the situation. "Hrm. Good point."

The old man had had enough. "Will you take this _seriously_?"

"I will now," muttered Serge, looking out over the land from their new height. He could see over the mountain tops from where they were standing. There was a small but grand structure in front of them, separated by granite tablets that were linked together to form a bridge from the transporter to the chamber. There were stone barriers erected all around to keep people from falling to their deaths. Some of the lower clouds hung like a mist above them. The air was cool, almost cold.

Serge looked over the edge as if to assure himself that it was real and not just his mind playing tricks. He had seen a floating stone structure in the sky when he first looked upon the fortress. He had not endeavored to wonder at its realism then, thinking it may have been a jutting piece of rock face from one of the many mountains within visible range. Now, though, it was unmistakable. From this great height, he looked down upon not only the immense estate of Fortress Dragonia, but of the valley that was carved and blasted free of mountains to make room for the structure. Looking straight ahead allowed a view that showed the sea and far islands beyond the mountaintops.

And sudden flashes of white seared him behind his eyes that caused an agonizing pain to lance through his head. Random images took shape like sparks of light—quickly forming and fading just as fast. Serge cried openly as his grip weakened until he fell to his knees. The visual anomalies assaulted his senses in rushing currents. He kept pinching his eyes shut and snapping them open to relieve his mind of these forsaken images, but he couldn't. He shook his head fiercely which sent tears spattering about. There were voices that called out to him, forcing him to focus his attention on them.

And then he was back; he was himself. The chamber began to take shape, but it still continued to waver and flicker. Steadying himself on the sound of their voices and they eventually brought him back to reality. When he could search outward, he focused on Kid. A trembling smile formed on his lips.

"Y' a'ight, bub?" she asked.

Pushing himself to a knee, the young man responded quietly, "Aye."

The others helped him stand, and with every step that was taken, he stood his own ground with more and more certainty. By the time they reached the pinnacle of the bridge, Serge was leading the group.

He paused at the door without look back. With something akin to forlorn, he touched the heavy ebon door. And then he took them to Lynx, to Viper, and to what they viewed as the end to this madness. The doors, heavy and laden, parted for Serge, and he stood upright as he let the slabs go, walking across the threshold. The failing daylight shot crimson across the entryway, each silhouette moved like exaggerated stains before they distorted before the light inside.

The chamber was large, like every other in the fortress. There were platforms circling a central dais, they were statues of dragons ringed around a pedestal that held the Dragon Tear. The carvings were highlighted by various colors signifying the elements they represented. A group of people were studying the myriad of engravings covering the tube-like walls of the room from the floor to the ceiling. Electric lighting was set up at sporadic intervals, the brass posts elevating the reach of the yellow light onto sections of the singular wall.

Lynx was conferring with the General some distance away from the technicians and archeologists. As the door opened and the group strode in, they turned to stare at the newcomers; the silence between the parties was accentuated by the spitting hum of the portable generators feeding the light posts. All work ceased as the General strode forward, his footfalls echoing heavily on the stone floor, overpowering that of the noisy generators.

"Radius, is that you?" It was a wondering question that still boomed across the distance with authority. "What is the meaning of this—_Glenn_?"

The catman took a few quiet steps towards the party. "Ah, the vandals now have a few new acquaintances. Well, General, it looks like the proverbial cat is out of the bag."

The man ignored the demizen as his face braced a flux of emotions, yet when he spoke, it was in a measured tone. ""Is it true, then, that I am betrayed by mine own?"

Kid pointed her knife at Lynx, who stood just aft behind the General. "He's duh one we—"

"_Silence_!" bellowed the leader of the Acacia army.

Radius raised his chin and squared his shoulders defiantly. "When your ambassador sends a lackey to murder me, I've no qualms hunting him down."

The General faced the scarred soldier. "And you, Glenn? Whom has been a son to me these long years, before and after the death of Dario?"

Glenn stood at attention. "Sir Lynx has an agenda that is against Acacia, m'lord, by direct or indirect actions."

"What proof have you of this?" demanded Viper.

"He has stolen that artifact from Guldove," stated the dragoon, pointing the tip of his sword toward the flame-wrapped sapphire on the pedestal.

A sidelong look was given to the catman as the General hissed, "Is this true?"

Glenn opened his mouth to speak but began to move forward suddenly, and it caught the attention of the General. While his gaze moved away from Lynx, the demi-human took a step forward and thrust a dagger between the ribs of the older man. Blood gurgled up past Viper's lips as he slid forward.

Lynx sighed heavily as he pushed the dying man from him with nonchalance. "Now this simply will not do."

Shadowy forms detached themselves from the murkiness and pounced on the bystanders, their tails nothing but streaks of flames. The catman snapped a hand out to halt the others from approaching.

"Such a nuisance you've become. Though, I must be honest in saying that I've been anticipating your arrival, Serge." The catman approached the altar in the very center of the chamber. "A wondrous artifact, this," Lynx murmured, his clawed fingers caressing the metallic shell of the Dragon Tear.

The sound of Radius's footfalls echoed over the sound of the dying as he slid next to the General's head which lain in a pool of blood. But before the ex-Deva could muster aid to help his fallen commander, Lynx snapped his arm towards the pair. Tendrils of purple jade rimmed in black coiled into an orb in the demi-human's palm, darkening as it condensed. Glenn called out to Radius and the old man looked up just as the uneven ball of energy slammed into him. Both of the old men were flung wayward. Radius's head cracked on the arm of a statue and spun airborne, missing the wing before he crashed into the ground and slid heavily into the wall.

Glenn cried out and rushed toward Lynx, but he halted as the latter aimed his palm toward the scarred youth. His empty hand was a threat that was full of meaning.

"Worry not, my friend, for you will join them soon." The Dragon Tear began to pulsate, growing ever brighter. Every now and again, Lynx turned his eyes toward it. "Serge, have you thought on what I spoke of before?" Clawed fingers hovered over the multi-faceted surface of the gem, letting the colors wash over leather and fur. His eyes were more of a green in the light than yellow as he watched the remaining four.

"Ah-h-h, you know that I cannot die, Serge, don't you? Because killing me would be the same as removing yourself from existence entirely."

"Dun be takin' in by his fast-talk," Kid spat.

The catman curled his lips into the parody of a smirk, given the shape of his maw. "Oh? That fateful day—what, seven years gone now?"

A look passed over Serge's face.

"Heh, now you remember."

The young man stared into the multitude of infinitesimal reflections of the gem. Everything else began to seem so far away to Serge, drifting on the banks of his perception like the whispering of the sea. He could see himself and he could see Lynx; he furrowed his brow as a tightness developed in the back of his head. The images overlapped until he stared at a reflection of himself halfway melded with that of the catman's.

Kid touched his arm. "Serge?"

The flickering blue light filled the chamber in rapid bursts that caused Kid, Glenn, and Guile to stagger back and shield their eyes, disorientated. Serge buckled forward, groaning as an intense pain flashed behind his eyes. He clenched his skull between his palms, causing his bandana to come loose and fall to the floor, unnoticed. No matter how hard he pushed, the pressure would not submit. The young man cried out as he felt himself twisting as opposed to separating.

"I am you and you—irrevocably—are me."

Serge's knees clacked on the stone floor. The whispered voice seemed disembodied and belonged to no one in particular that Serge could tell.

"Whadder ya doin' tuh him?" screamed Kid, although Lynx did not answer as he leaned against the dais for support.

Glenn ran to the General's side in the moment of distraction and tried to revive him.

The magician thrust his cane at Lynx, and it hit him squarely in the chest, causing the catman to growl in pain as he scraped for purchase on the pedestal. Oddly, Serge cried out in shock at the same instant. The mechanical innards of the generators clattered; the bulbs exploded as the power surging through the wires shorted out the generators in bursts of flying sparks and smoke. And then all was quiet as darkness began to descend the dimmer the Dragon Tear became.

As the catman struggled to rise from a knee, Kid helped Serge up. Worry lined her eyes. "Y'okay, mate?"

The pain was subdued and began to fade as Serge stood. "Yes," he whispered. He moved away from the woman and stood alone, gesturing for Guile to stop. "Finish it. Finish it while he's distracted."

The blonde looked at the young man and their blue eyes met. He was the first to look away. "Do it," he croaked.

She nodded stiffly as she took a few steps towards Lynx. The demi-human fell onto his back and he half-dragged, half-crab-walked away from her the closer she came. Her eyes met those feline ones. She stopped. A look of determination hardened her expression as she leveled her knife.

"An' now," she whispered. "Now—"

"Revenge." It was Serge.

Kid turned to look over her shoulder at him. It was a brief glance. With her eyes back on the catman again, she stared as her jaw worked. "Aye."

Serge was beside her. "You must be quick," he whispered. "Before he recovers."

There was urgency to his voice, and yet she still hesitated. Confusion was setting in, mixed with a wave of varying emotions. Serge coaxed the knife from her hand. He tossed the Swallow to the ground; the shells clattered on the stone floor as he tested the balance and weight of the weapon. "Such a personal blade; it's one of betrayal."

The quizzical look Kid gave him seemed to seep into Serge, and he said in a huffed rush, "I'll do this for you, Kid." And he took a step forward. "I shall avenge Lucca for you."

"What?" The single whispered word was lined with confusion.

"What?" Serge asked in an irritated tone. "We must finish this _now_."

There was an utter lack of comprehension in her expression as she stared at him. "Ye—ye said yuh'd avenge Lucca fer me?"

Lynx croaked something as he continued to struggle to rise to his feet.

Serge sighed slowly, quelling his aggravation. "And? That's what you want, is it not?"

The woman looked from Lynx to Serge. She nodded. "Aye."

"Then what _is_ the problem?" Serge snapped, turning back to Kid.

She whispered, "I neva told ya her name."

"What is going on?" asked Guile in a tone laced with panic.

Kid searched Serge's eyes as if there was nothing else left in the world. She looked back to Lynx—his eyes pleading with her in such a _human_ way. Her own eyes widened as she brought her gaze back to Serge. "Oh, gods…"

Serge sighed again as he closed the little distance between them; the breath was still leaving his mouth as he slid the knife into Kid's side until the hilt pressed against her skin.

Guile shouted, "Serge! What are you _doing_?"

Glenn, roused by the magician's cry, came around the corner. "What happened?"

The fear in Guile's voice cracked his speech. "He _stabbed_ her!"

They watched as Kid slid down Serge's chest. Casually, he pushed her off the blade that was now covered in blood.

As the two men charged Serge, the violet miasma circled Serge's body. A ring of purple shot out, followed by a series of vaguely black feline shapes. They slammed into both men before knocking them clear off their feet.

Serge smirked and looked over the carnage, over the bodies that littered the floor. He chuckled throatily. "Ah, Kid, whomever you are, whatever you're supposed to be…"

He didn't finish the sentence as he reached down and took a handful of her hair and yanked her up. He cocked back his arm holding the knife and bared her throat. As Lynx moved, the young man lowered his arm a bit. His blue eyes stared at the catman. With brutal nonchalance, he dropped Kid. Her head clacked soundly on the granite floor.

"Look at you, Serge," the man said as he sauntered over to the demi-human. "Wait—I mean _Lynx_. You see, I was not lying when I told you that to kill me is to kill yourself." Serge dropped the dagger without a second thought.

He watched as the catman clawed at the discarded Swallow, but his hands were too much like paws. He couldn't gain purchase on the weapon, so he cradled the shaft in his arms.

"Still trying to come to terms with a new body, hmm? It's alright. You won't have long to wait until it's over." Serge crouched down next to Lynx. "You see, this is all the design of Fate. Seven long years ago, you weren't meant to live. You should have died." Whimsically, he continued as if lost in a reverie. "Love and hate; good and evil; this world is about balance."

Serge tried to coax the catman to look at him. Lynx fought against it as he reached a paw up to scrape at the face and neck of the young man. But it was a simple tuck of his head back that stopped all effort from Lynx as claws grasped the chain of the necklace. "I am—look at me when I'm talking to you." When Lynx struggled not to oblige him again, Serge jerked the catman's head harshly, bellowing, "_Look at me_!"

The young man took a few calming breaths that were drawn in through a grimace. Anger caused him to rise quickly, which caused the chain to break, and then the paw fell to the pouch on his waist, breaking the cord. Serge pushed the belongings away which caused Lynx to collapse back down. This seemed to satiate something inside of Serge.

"Enmity is the only truly balanced thing in this world. As you are no longer necessary," the young man said, palming the Dragon Tear and hefting it, "I see no reason not to balance the scales."

Energy began to flow over Serge from the artifact. The blue ropes became indigo as they swarmed across his body. A hand aimed at Lynx and the demi-human rose up off of the ground, still cradling the Swallow in encased arms. Even Serge began to levitate. Ribbons of elemental force snaked outward, encompassing the catman.

"Chrono Trigger, you are no more."

The entire chamber throbbed with such malevolent force that the statues and pedestal exploded. The fragments hovered, shrank back, and then burst out with velocity. The energy coalesced and pulsated around Lynx; the orb of shadowy light swallowed him. Another eruption of turbulence cracked the circular wall; it ruptured the Dragon Tear, scattering its shards across the chamber in a wave of glittering azure stars.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Chapter Eleven: Angelus Errare_**

The world felt like a disembodied thought, a twisted skein of thoughts and emotions much like physical pain. There was a maelstrom of restless colors flitting about. Some were swathed across the world in three dimensions while others were like cuts and tears in the fabric of reality, slowly bleeding extra shades into the air.

Serge stood slowly, his body having a terrible time adjusting. It was as he saw his legs that he started; panic was beginning to build within him, his heart in his throat while his chest contracted horribly. With forlorn, he drew his arms up and looked at his palms as he turned his hands around, if he could call what he had now hands.

His entire body seemed to be nothing but a miasma of blackened, liquid smoke turning about in a vague humanoid shape. Even the construct of his body was more a blend of uncertain motions as the threads of muted colors attempted to form one body, but in its indecision, it would revert to a different ethereal one. And then the terror started to wash over him in a torrent of real, living pain that, in and of itself, felt corporeal, as if separated and connected at the same time.

He opened his mouth to speak, but a chain of spits and hisses permeated the air, jumbled together with real words. The more he tried to speak, to call out, the more he began to realize that the sound was separated from his body, almost as if thoughts were given sound.

A strange beast came lumbering towards him, moving like a crooked streak of green. Textures began to take shape and beady, little orbs shone brightly where the eyes were meant to be. And this scared Serge to no end. Backing up, he staggered into something, tripped, caught himself, and ended up sinking into what constituted as the ground. With a cry, the shadowy form that was Serge, tried to pull free, and then the terrain did something odd with him. It inhaled—which drew him in—and then gave a great belch as it disgorged him bodily into the air. He drifted somewhat in the air, his body mutating and writhing, before he landed heavily onto the ground-like substance.

_Easy there_, came a raspy, disembodied voice. It was focused and seemed to funnel toward him, like sound is supposed to work.

A strangled string of noise came from everywhere at once as Serge tried to speak.

The green-like thing had the rough shape of an elderly person, hunched over and wielding a cane of a green so distorted that it looked brown. _Easy does it. Calm yourself. Concentrate on one thing at a time._

Each action had a violent reaction, and it took him all of his self-control not to try and do something quickly out of panic. He remained perfectly still, staring at the ever-shifting colors that created the terrain. He focused on that, the haywire colors that, as he looked closer and closer, there were more minute ones swirling and jerking beneath the greater jets of color. It seemed to be a violent, never-ending process.

_Do not look too closely at any one thing, unless you want to be drawn into it, and that, sadly, will be the end of your conscious self._

Serge listened to what was being said and tried to close his eyes. The result was like shutting the door to the light. There was no physical feeling to the action, and all subtlety seemed to have been stripped away from him. He suddenly felt very, very hollow.

_Good. Now, concentrate on standing up. Everything that was once taken for granted must be controlled here._

Bracingly, Serge steeled himself before pushing with his arms. He thought of the sensations of the muscles in his arms tensing as he worked to lift himself—and suddenly he thought of Kid beneath him as they made love—and his whole body felt like it was unraveling.

_No! Focus!_

Serge willed himself again to be attentive to only a single thread of thought, that which amounted to the physical sensations that a person felt as they performed mundane tasks. Again, he stirred, willing his arms to work like they would were they truly there. Phantom limbs responded, and as he devoted energy to his legs, he slowly began to rise. Finally he stood, swaying, as he left his eyes closed, straining to maintain contact with his body.

_Good_, said the voice as it drifted towards him.

He wasn't sure if there was an accent with it or not, but that seemed to take away from his concentration, so he abruptly halted any further thought on the idea and reinforced his will to _just_ maintaining his body.

_Try walking. Careful now. Easy does it._

And it was, eventually, becoming easier. It wasn't that calmness had descended upon him, but more like Serge was no longer panicking at every shift, every turn. A trembling took him every time his form shifted from one shadowy thing to the next.

_To speak,_ the voice began, _is a controlled effort as well. Focusing it into a tunnel takes time and energy, something I do not know if you will be able to accomplish so readily as standing and walking. Though, let us try._

And so it began. It was a jumble of trials and errors to somehow manage the task of speaking. At first, he could only spit and hiss, or emit croaking sounds that were supposed to be words. He was guided by the soft voice on how to regulate his thoughts into words, because he was not literally speaking, since he had no body to speak with. It was a struggle to speak from his mind. Something he was previously unaware of being a thing that could be done. Though, after a while, a string of small, chopped words formed in the colorized air, and the sounds weren't of his voice at all. They were deeper, more guttural, and there was a constant lisp that he couldn't control. He was told that this was because of some shift in his form; his mind was unfocused so the voice patterns were mimicking, as best they could, with the indecisive nature of his version of his own self.

He was coaxed along with shifty words that drifted by him like a breeze; each time he was told something, he sensed more than felt the tendrils of miasma slithering in response.

The world was altering around them as he worked tirelessly at his appointed tasks. He felt numb to the struggles, as if he were on the cusp of being drained although he maintained that stillness of inertia without ever crossing that boundary. When he questioned the gentle voice about this, Serge was told that he was learning to handle his spiritual form with more and more ease.

As the bluish wisps that were supposed to signal a pseudo-night in this ethereal place darkened to a violet, he slowly felt like he was coming back to himself. The world was shifting about them. Things that were only half-formed began to change into other abstract objects that could not be defined by the eyes, and he was certain that he would never be able to state for sure what they were supposed to be.

And then suddenly, they were not alone. It was a ripple and a crack that distorted more than just the sound as waves of color spat back in violent reds and yellows before twisting in on themselves and resettling to their original shapes and colors. In the place that once held nothing now showed a whisper of a woman whose shadow bared a striking resemblance to nothing human as it curved over things blackly, despite the fact that there was no prominent source of light. It was a petite woman that glittered and shone and was whole.

It was Harle, and everything began to come crashing back into Serge's distorted subconscious.

_Sprigg,_ said Harle in a quiet voice that drifted around her body as if being spun on the end of a string. _I am glad it was you who found him and not Machacite._ Turning her head back towards Serge, she half-smiled, and a breathy sound slipped out of her and caressed him like rose petals. _Lynx, Lynx, Lynx; I am so_ pleased _to have found you._

The voice of the greenish mesh of colors responded to Harle with a rather bland tone. _What brings you here? I understand this is a temporary home to your brethren, but that does not mean you can distort this place by coming and going as you see fit._

_Forgive me, Sprigg, but I cannot express how greatly he is needed. I can tell you simply that Lynx must need return home._ Harle turned her head and looked over to the corporeal shape that was Serge. _We need to get him to the Tower of Remembrance, now, before he loses himself completely._

A wave of distortion raced across Sprigg's incomplete form, showing alarm. _He is a mortal? When was the last time one passed through this world?_ The statement seemed to be more rhetorical than anything else. _I figured him for a wandering spirit newly sent here._

Harle's eyes sparked as she eyed the greenish strokes that constituted as Sprigg's body. _In a world controlled by chance and chaos, it seems appropriate, does it not?_ Her tone was facetious as if she were chiding the other. _Let us merely state that the world is about balance, and I need to tip the scales._

There was an indignant sound that came from Sprigg as the yellow orbs narrowed. _Do not patronize me, Lunar Child, just because it was your kind that taught you a different meaning to the way things work. Whatever could be considered important or irreplaceable are of no consequence and are ruined with—_

Harle interrupted Sprigg with a wave of her hand, which sent a ripple through the colors, causing them to brighten as they coalesced into an angry ribbon. _We do not have time for a philosophy lesson—philanthropic, theological, or cosmic satire you may choose to badger us with today. I must get Sir Lynx to the Tower as soon as possible._

_I…am…Serge,_ he said slowly, causing his body to ripple with the effort.

With a heavy sigh that bubbled out from Harle as she gestured to him, she said to Sprigg, _The longer we tarry, the closer we come to losing him, and I—can—not—_lose_—him._ She stressed the statement in such a way that black rivulets began to contaminate the violet of the night air, darkening their immediate surroundings noticeably. _Open the way, if you will._

Sprigg said nothing, but suddenly the landscape began to blend together and twist, flattening and expanding. There were planes of shapes and colors turning and moving away; the ground beneath their feet began to fall away from them, yet there was no sensation of flying, falling, or floating. And it was then that he realized a hard truth: everything here was like a metaphor, not really there, only making suggestions at reality without ever truly becoming it.

The distance stretched away into nothingness, and even the discs of images drifted away into the abyss. And then there was a grassy place developing itself out of the vagueness, what appearing to be stalks of grass were merely strokes the color of wheat. All around them hills began to form, and something akin to a waterfall formed itself in a blackish-blue river of snakelike cords dancing in the direction that was perceived to be downward.

Beyond that was something that looked like a tower, swarthy and irresolute in the distance, its shape barely discernable against the shades of night.

Harle began moving towards it, gesturing Serge to do the same. It was a rush of distortion that took them the rest of the way, even though they only took a few steps in the direction of the tower. When the world slowed down and took shape again, they were standing before the Tower of Remembrance.

It was a tall structure that didn't seem to hold a true shape, its edges softened and blurred beyond comprehension, melting into the night. There were things that looked like windows were nothing more than grayish slashes across the face of the pseudo building. The door opened as Harle approached it, and then another opened, showing a set of double-doors that led into a white and red interior made up of smudged blotches as if created by a sponge.

Following behind her, he made his way inside, looking around with a sort of calm. Banisters were noticeable against the backdrop, and the further in he went, he realized he was on a landing well above the first floor, as he saw a drop etched into the interior of the tower.

_Come, Sir Lynx, we are late. While time has a different meaning here, we must not dawdle._ Harle had turned to look at him, her face something different than he had remembered it. She was then twirling around to look about the place. _If we stay here too long, we will be lost in the waves of Time, and I cannot lose you. Not just yet._

_I am not Lynx,_ he repeated again, his body bulging and slithering about as his form fought against itself.

Harle looked back to him and frowned. With a gesture to him, one that disrupted the nature of the colors, she stated, _Look at you, Sir Lynx. Do you remember what had happened to you?_

He tried hard to remember. There were fragmented emotions and glimmers of thoughts. Struggle though he did, he could not piece anything together into coherent thought.

_This place must be really affecting you. Come, _she said, taking a step towards him and touching him softly on the forehead that wasn't really there.

And then there was a burst of images passing behind his eyes, and he saw everything again. One moment he was looking at Lynx on the other side of the pedestal, reflected in the crystalline orb of the Dragon Tear, and then he was staring at it, watching the images of Kid and himself. He remembered Kid being stabbed by his own hand. But it wasn't his hand because he was looking through eyes that were not his own. He felt as disembodied now.

Suddenly the images stopped as he saw the bright blue eyes staring at him and that cruel, cruel smile vanishing into wisps, and Harle lowered her arm, breaking contact from him. The look she gave him was one of sympathy and true feeling. It seemed as if the images he saw were wrenching her apart.

_I am so sorry._ Harle paused and turned away and looked to have taken a deep breath, although there was no air to physically breathe in this place.

She went to the banister and took a step up, floating the distance required to take it in a single stride. From the top of the banister she stepped off into emptiness. Despite himself, he took a step forward and stretched out a swarthy hand to grasp her, and that was when he saw it. It was a hand one moment, but when the rippling that constantly warred over his body occurred, he saw it become a clawed, paw-like hand. He just stared at it.

_I am not…me._ That wasn't exactly what he wanted to say. He almost let slip that he wasn't Serge, but he knew he was. He couldn't force out the word Lynx either. So the only word that broke free from him was the truest thing he could have said, because it _felt_ right.

_I see you are starting to understand this._ Harle was walking up a pillar that connected the floors of the Tower. _As much as it may pain you, you must realize you are not Serge—not any longer._

He continued to stare at his palms as every step Harle took disturbed the balance of the world around them. _The Dragon Tear did this, it has placed him into your body, and you into this one. When he sent you here, he figured that you were as good as dead._

The wraithlike being that had once been Serge looked up at Harle, but he didn't see her. She had transported herself to a beam across the open space, since the landing wrapped around the floor.

_The one thing he was not planning on was me._ She stopped pacing and looked up, directly at him. It was a disconcerting image, her standing perpendicular to him, where she had to crane her head up to see him. If she were looking straight ahead, she would be staring at the ground so far below.

Approaching the banister, he reached a tentative hand out, willing his palm to be real against a physical banister, and it happened. His hand rested onto the awkward white brushstroke. _Why?_

_Why help you? Easily!_ She sounded so gentle and playful, like a hoyden. _You are now Sir Lynx, and I am sworn to guide him._

He shook his head, his body becoming unfocused, which he was forced to stress his will to maintain his form. _But…I am Serge! I_ _am!_

_Are you?_ she countered.

_I…I am._

_Have you wondered why you are unable to take a true shape in this place?_ This was asked in a soft voice, full of sympathy.

He shook his head again, straining like one would when gritting their teeth. _Because…because I am dead._

_Oh ho! Dead, are you?_ She resumed her pacing, her steps punctuated by pools of red, yellow, and green that faded into nothingness as the pillar retook its normal presence. _Not yet, Sir Lynx. Not just yet._

_Then, why am I here?_ The demand boomed out, causing pulses of color across the painted structure.

_You have been sent to a realm of spirits, that is true, but you are not dead. You were not killed. You did not die. You cannot take shape because you have lost your way._

A thought bubbled to the surface as he said aloud, _Angelus Errare._

That caused Harle to stop and jerk her head to peer at him. The look was initially one of shock, and then it bled into one of pensiveness. _Where did you hear that?_ As if thinking better of it, she continued on. _You have to come to terms of who you are. Why do you not try it? Tell yourself, _believe_ it, that you are Sir Lynx._

_Why should I? _The thoughts took shape as words, even though he meant to keep them to himself.

This irritated Harle as she barked out at him, the feeling of her words no longer flowery. It felt something like the extremes that Kid could go to. _Just look at yourself! You are incomplete here because you cannot accept it! Who will believe that you are Serge? Who are you? No one in the world, except for you, is going to believe that you are Serge! You are not him, not any longer!_

_Damn you, stop being so blind! You are Lynx. This is reality, and if you decide to go against reality, you will be crushed! It will get you killed, mark my words._ Sneering at him, Harle clenched her fists, which inadvertently caused the shapes and colors to mutate. _If you cannot even attempt to see the folly of your ways, then I have half a mind to leave you here, because you will be of absolutely no use outside of here!_

_I am Serge! I _have_ to be!_ The desperation in his tone filtered across his body in a spasm that caused him to double over and fall to his knees. He began to sink through slowly as he lost control of his self.

Harle flung her arms outward, sending a wave of energy flowing violently over the opposite side of the floor. _Serge, are you?_ Now she focused on him again, her eyes narrowing angrily. _I will tell you this: your memories are of Serge, but nothing else. You accepted the fact that there was another world where you died! Who is to say that you are even the real Serge now? Were you ever? Who was Serge but a figure, a shape? A soul—a spirit?_

_I am real! _He cried this out, forcing himself up to a single knee, no longer lodged inside the carpet-like floor. His body felt empty, his head heavy.

_I do not contest that you are real!_

He countered her, _I am real, damn you! I do not care what you say! You cannot make me believe otherwise!_

_Yes! You are real—but who are you?_

And he cried out: _I am me!_

_Look at yourself,_ she shouted back at him, matching his fury with her own. Both of them causing the entire area to pulsate wildly into a myriad of colors and textures, everything warping alarmingly around them, and yet they remained resolute on each other. _Look at yourself and tell me who you are!_

And he did, in spite, just to prove that he could, if nothing else, and he was shocked to see it. He was whole, like her. His body was colored in the grayscale, shades of black and gray.

_Who are you?_ Her whispered words washed across him mellifluously.

_I am Lynx._

Lynx stood up, looking over himself without speaking. His almond-shaped eyes blinked uncertainly, but he felt it. He was taller than he remembered having been. He was also bulkier, owning to much more muscle mass and hair. He could feel it covering his entire body. Turning his hands over and over again, he watched them—felt them, though distantly. He clenched them into fists. The miasma that had once constituted as his being was gone now, the last tendrils fading away.

Harle was next to him again, he looked at her silently. She was smiling, albeit sadly. She shook her head minutely before saying in a gentle voice that rolled across his entire frame. _Welcome back, Sir Lynx._

Again he said nothing, he just looked at her and then back to his body. It felt awkward, but it felt natural. The oddity of the situation did not unnerve him as much as it should have. It was as if the acceptance here maintained a subtle kind of calm in this place.

She inquired, _Are you ready to go back?_

_Back? Back to what?_ And then he asked, _What is there to go back to?_

_You must decide. Are you done? Is this the end of your life?_

_No,_ he answered honestly. _I am not dead yet._

She smiled at him, and a door opened into a purity of light down the hall. They walked to the opened door, and both looked through it; there was no colors bleeding through, it was a solid wall of some kind of color that he could not depict. He took that step forward and crossed the threshold with a resolute stride. It was strange, though, that now when he moved, it had a predatory motion to it. His shadow was the last to vanish, but his shadow was that of a man who did not mirror the form Lynx now possessed.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter Twelve: Home, (Bitter) Sweet Home**_

There was a haze spread out across the air, distorting the scenery as it faded back into view. The throbbing subsided as the world rebuilt itself. Swaying slowly, Lynx raised his head and peered about. The greenish mist still lingered, twining around the oddly shaped trees. The mint-colored water bubbled like pustules popping, and when that happened, an acrid scent permeated the air. Vines wrapped themselves around the strange vegetation, choking the trees and shrubbery alike until it was misshapen.

Harle scrunched up her nose and snorted daintily as she shook her head. "This place is disgusting," she stated matter-of-factly.

Lynx worked his maw, taking in the sensations as his jaw rolled. His hands curled and unfurled as he watched the digits move. "How…" He didn't finish his question.

The gypsy turned and looked at the catman. A faint smile budded on her lips; the lower one was pierced with a loop. Her hair jingled as the bells entwined in her ponytails swayed. "Comfy?"

His eyes narrowed as he drew his ire upon her. His lips curled back in a snarl. "And what's so amusin'?" he spat.

She canted her head, sending a twinkle of sound away from her. Her gaze was quizzical, but there was a hint of amusement. "I cannot say I like it as much, but I will say this: you _sound_ much better. Easier to understand." With a smirk, she jibed, "Oh, the irony of _that_."

Lynx tried to roll his eyes, but all it accomplished was straining his eyes, and he had to blink away the pain. He looked around again and took a deep breath. "I can't see clearly," he stated simply.

"You'll get used to it. There is only so much one can learn where we came from. And I must say it took you much longer than I had hoped it would. You _are_ stubborn."

Lynx tested the solidity of the ground, making sure that when his footing sank, it wouldn't slip between vines. He made his way gingerly to the water's edge. It spat angrily at him as hot fumes rose twistedly upward. He pulled back, breathing through his mouth and continued to look about. The trees were warped and closely put together. Some were submerged while others sprouted up thickly from the damp earth, their roots gnarled skeins that spread out chaotically.

"Where are we?" Harle asked as she leapt lightly to his side.

Puzzled, Lynx responded without bringing his gaze back to her. "Hydra Marshes…"

Harle pursed her lips. "You can speak complete sentences, you know."

His upper lip curled, and as he scratched at his cheek, he pulled it away, repulsed by the feeling. He stared at his hand momentarily. When he looked at Harle, he saw the way she was staring at him. It was an askance look that was smothered with impatience.

"How is this possible?" he asked.

"Let's just say that it took longer for you to accept your new form. But you finally did, which I am thankful for. Any longer and we may've been stuck in that awful place forever."

"Where are we?"

She furrowed her brow and wrinkled her nose. "Come now, sir Lynx, did you not just say it? We are in the Hydra Marshes."

"Which world, though?" he inquired with a heady lacing of both hope and desperation.

"Ahh!" Harle chimed, giggling merrily. "Now we come to the crux of the matter!"

He stared at her as she wagged a finger at him. Slowly, determinedly, he crossed his arms. The leather of his armor and coat creaked. The stern look quieted the gypsy woman.

"While both worlds are very, _very_ similar, there are a few drastic changes to them. We must puzzle this out to know what awaits us outside of this…" her upper lip curled as she avoided something that could have been extremely vulgar, yet even in the attempt, the word was given as much distaste as if she had been crass, "_place_."

For a few moments, Lynx stood there, working his hands into fists unconsciously as he looked about. What would have been a look of concentration on his human form was more of an apathetic countenance on his new one. Harle stood beside him without speaking and without expressing any of her impatience outwardly. Eventually, the catman exhaled a deep breath that he seemed to have been holding. The putrid fog swirled away from his maw.

Slowly, he said, "I remember the doctor in Guldove, an' he said hydras were extinct. But he said the Hydra Marshes held none." Turning to face the gypsy, he blinked slowly, his large, almond-shaped eyes narrowing slightly, and spoke before she could interrupt him. "Without hydras, the marshes became polluted—the air un-breathable." There was a twitch at the corners of his slash-like mouth as he folded his arms across his chest.

"But we can breathe easily here," Harle said quickly; and then it dawned on her the import of what he was saying. "Ooooh! Hydras are still _alive_ here!"

Lynx nodded. "Aye; we are in _my_ world now. But we should be in the _other_ world. That is where _he_ is."

He didn't say it, but he thought it. That was where she was. But slowly, the reality of the entire situation was beginning to form itself. He thought of Kid and of the bastard who stole his body, but then, now he was back home, and he was thinking of his mother, and of Leena. As the prospect of seeing them again began to grow in his chest like a budding flower, he was dowsed in an icy realization: he was not himself. This new body dashed all of his hopes and desires onto the rocks, where is scattered like sand.

"Let us go back to where it all began, then, yes?" she offered, sobered by his mood. She crossed her arms over her midriff. The three ponytails jangled gently. "You know, _Where Angels Lose Their Way_?"

His green eyes narrowed and softened. He nodded his head once, sharply, and let his arms fall to his sides. Without another word, he treaded off towards the edge of the marshlands leaving the woman behind.

By the time they had vacated the marshlands and arrived into the plains, the sun was kissing the horizon, basking the spring lands in burnt colors, while the sea looked like a rippling sheet of onyx. The stench faded almost immediately in the warm breeze drifting off of the water. Lynx took a moment to look about, taking in the sight. Harle made no effort to urge the catman forward, letting him take the time he needed. Eventually, he moved on without a word.

His movements were more feline than before; it was as if Serge had fully merged with the body of Lynx, and that his motor skills were as natural as could be. The grace in which he moved was matched by the silky movements of Harle behind him. The winds rose and fell, and a breeze always blew. Dusk set as the sun sank lower beneath the waterline, and it was night by the time that they came within view of Arni Village. Lynx looked longingly at the glow from the village and the silhouette of the structures, but pushed himself onward.

Water filled the peninsula, concealing the sunken land so that Opassa Island was, in truth, an island once more. Crickets and bats created a symphony in the air, but all else seemed to be still and quiet. Lynx stood on the edge of a rocky overhang, where the salty water lapped at the jut, and merely stared across at the island. The gypsy woman came up beside him and looked in the direction he did.

"This is it?" she inquired lightly. Her voice was so gentle and mellifluous, as sweet as the flowers that bloomed only at night.

For a moment, Lynx didn't answer her. His slanted eyes were narrowed in contemplation. "_Angelus Errare_." When the gypsy looked at him, he shook his head and said as he continued to stare at the island. "We have to wait until morning."

Harle said quietly, "I doubt that we will have a welcoming committee in any place we try to stay." She took Lynx's silence as confirmation. "I'll find us a campsite," she stated as she turned and walked away from him.

He stood there without moving for a long time. His eyes had adjusted easily to the darkness of night. Not only could he see better at night, he could actually _see_ more clearly than he could ever remember having been able to. It was exactly as Harle had said it was going to be, that he would adapt. Lynx recapped their travel to this place, and how he controlled his body on an instinctual level, or the way that he spoke. His words were still a bit slurred and broken, but they were much clearer in pronunciation.

He pondered these different changes that he had gone through—was going through. He let himself feel the awe of the situation as he stood there staring at the island. He let the awesome sensations wash over him, as if he were trying to drown out the twist of fate that had led him back home but unable to live in it again. His life, no matter what realm he was in, was not his own. Anger began to fester beneath the surface, heating his body from the inside out.

All he could do was accept the changes he was forced to endure, and possibly to seek retribution for it all. He remembered, then, the scenario in the altar chamber of Fort Dragonia. There was so much he did not understand, and possibly never would, but he remembered the look of the demonized version of himself crouching down over him, saying, _Still trying to come to terms with a new body, hmm? It's alright. You won't have long to wait until it's over._ The words seeped through his mind, his body, and his soul, polluting him even now as he thought about it.

And then it was followed with words that were almost whimsical to Lynx, now, as if they were to spite him, instead of how they had actually been spoken. _Enmity is the only truly balanced thing in this world. As you are no longer necessary, I see no reason not to balance the scales._ Was it about balance, wholly and completely, that he should not be able to go back to his life? Would he never be able to look at his mother again and tell her he loved her and cherished her? Could it be that he would never see Leena again or be able to make love to Kid? Too many conflicting emotions rivaled to overwhelm him, each one a completely separate onslaught against his fragile—and newly rebuilt—sanity.

His jaw trembled as he felt on the verge of tears. He knew crying would solve nothing, but he couldn't think clearly through the deluge of memories that would never be more than that, simple memories. A warm breeze came ruffled the fur on his head, and caused his whiskers fluttered gently. He let the simplicity of the moment placate him, but what was only supposed to be a temporary moratorium from his life, ended up being so much more than a quiet respite. He felt something in his heart of hearts shift, changing course.

Words spoken to him by the Serge imposter came drifting back to him, and he spoke them aloud, in a whisper, in sync with those of his human voice. "You see, this is all the design of Fate. Seven long years ago, you weren't meant to live. You should have died."

Balancing the scales would have been to kill him, which was what Serge had attempted to do. And yet he was still alive. He had a new body that was not his own, true, but he had one. Harle had gone across the planes of life and afterlife and found him, nurtured him, and brought him back into the world of the living. Lynx looked down at his uncoiling fist that was a dexterous blend between a hand and a paw.

The one thing that he had learned ever since this whole ordeal had begun was how to compartmentalize his memories and their corresponding emotions, so that he would be able to focus on the tasks at hand. Over the course of that time, he learned to let his past go enough to move forward in his life. His mother was a person he never forgot, but he had moved on from Leena and gave himself to Kid, the young woman who he had fought for and had been willing to die for.

Lynx took a deep breath and held it. He had learned to adapt to so much change and chaos so rapidly that he felt, for the first time since the altar chamber, that he was at ease with his situation. Acceptance spread throughout his body, quelling the hot anger into a warmer sense of determination, letting his animosity for the creature who took his actual body simmer. Though the catman knew that, deep down, he would be on the verge of it boiling over into a rage. At that point, he would let it, he surmised.

As the night progressed, he worked diligently at placing his scattered thoughts into their proper—and oft times new—places inside of himself.

The moons had risen in the intermediate time he had spent by himself. The light of the moons spread a warm glow across the fields as he ventured towards where the edge of the woods met with the coastline. The land was rising into what would become the cliff side that held Cape Howl. As quickly as he thought of the difference between what was etched on the stone at its summit between the two worlds, he discarded the memories. A small fire burned brightly some distance from him, and he approached it. He could see Harle standing on the raised jut of earth that posed as the rocky shoreline. She was staring out at sea, her arms folded across her midriff. He came to a stop next to her and looked out at the sea with her, though he had a feeling that they both were seeing two very different things.

"I wanna thank you," Lynx said quietly, without looking at her.

The gypsy woman lowered her head momentarily, and said when she returned her gaze to the sheet of ebony water that was spattered with the reflection of the stars. She didn't respond.

"I'm still _me_, right?" She sighed heavily at his question, forcing him to elaborate. "I know y' said that I am Lynx and that Lynx is me—I get that, I do. But what I want to know is: am I still the Chrono Trigger?"

Now she looked at him, her red eyes almost a plum color in the night. She took a moment to organize her thoughts before taking a deep breath and nodding once. "You are."

Her exhalation was quieter than his, and the catman's shoulders slumped visibly, relieved. "Then we've gotta get back to the other world. We have to stop him."

Puzzled, she asked, "Stop him from what exactly?"

"He must've needed my body for something," stated Lynx as he looked down at Harle. "I just realized how much shorter you are."

Her laughter was like bells chiming. "I am not shorter; you are now taller." Soberly, she added, "I suppose that you are right, that he must have need of your human body."

With a nod, he faced the sea again. Before he could respond, she spoke again.

"Unless revenge is what you desire most."

For a moment, Lynx stood in stunned silence. His maw had opened to speak, but he was speechless, and eventually just closed his mouth. The comment was a valid one. Revenge would be a natural way of dealing with the ordeal, yet so was the fact that he had a strong suspicion that there was much more going on that nobody was aware of.

Finally, Lynx stated, "Revenge or not, I can't let him use my body as a tool." Harle opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off with a snap. "I don't care if it's his body now or not."

The comment awarded him one of her sprite-like smiles.

"_Angelus Errare_?" she asked him.

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded. She turned away from him and signaled for him to follow her. They approached the fire, and on the other side, when she motioned to it, he saw what she wanted him to see. His Swallow was on the grassy earth, the blades dinged and battered from the usage it had seen in the last few months. Lynx knelt down beside it and ran his hand over the shaft tenderly. It was then, as he was caressing the wood that he noticed them. Two other prized pieces of his were lying there: the satchel Orlha had given to him with the brooch inside it as well as the pendant that Kid had had him hold for her.

"How…?" began Lynx, but he couldn't complete the question.

As Harle spoke, he slowly held each of the items and stroked them in silent wonder. "You brought them with you when you crossed over. When I reached you, they were almost extensions of yourself, but when you let go, to form yourself, I gathered them as best I could and kept them away for safekeeping."

"Safe…keeping…" The demi-human kept his thoughts to himself as he sat down alongside the fire and cradled the pendant in his hand. His words were a jumbled mess, giving life to how disarrayed his thoughts had become.

The gypsy crouched down on the other side of Lynx and eyed him. She gently touched the spooned blade of the Swallow and smiled wistfully. "I thought it best that I keep them for you, for when we returned here. You will need them; that much is certain. I'm just thankful that you won't use this one on me again."

With his eyes half-lidded in pensiveness, Lynx looked up at Harle and saw her smiling. "Thank you," he whispered.

She seemed to draw in on herself as she looked down and away, as if looking inward as opposed to anything in the physical world. Her smile became one of forlorn. Slowly she pushed herself up and circled around the fire. "Dawn is not far off, and I feel we should make as early a start as possible."

He watched her as she moved off to lie down outside the firelight. Her back was to him and her knees were drawn up against her chest. There was so much bare skin showing through her outfit that it was a surprise that the brown actually covered any of her; she seemed so vulnerable. Every time she shifted, her bells would tingle, and the firelight reflected off of them, making it seem like there were stars in the darkness of her hair.

He had a lot to be thankful for, for her to do what she had for him after doing so much to hinder him when he was the human Serge. But now that he was the demi-human Lynx, she seemed to guide him better than anyone else, teaching him how to control the body of this monster. With his attention waning from Harle, he refocused his gaze onto the pendant in his palm. He took heart in it, letting the feel of it soothe his battered soul that didn't belong in this awkward body. He didn't know how long he stared at it, or when he closed his hand around the gem, or when he had eventually fallen asleep.

When he awoke in the morning, the sky was brightening from indigo in the core of the sky to a greenish hue off on the horizon. The sun hadn't crested the water's edge, but it would soon enough. He slowly sat up and raised the pendant, placing it over his head and around his neck. Carefully he tucked it into his coat, making sure to let it settle beneath his armor's breastplate. He took a moment to fasten the pouch that Orlha had entrusted to him around his belt, tying off the broken ends. There was no harness for his Swallow, so there was little he could do with it, other than to rest it against his shoulder as he traveled. It would tie down a hand but he was willing to deal with that.

Lynx looked over to where Harle had fallen asleep, but she was not there, so he took the opportunity to get up and stretch. After a short while she reappeared, though they said nothing to each other. In silence, they ventured off towards Opassa Island. By the time they reached it, the tide had drawn out, revealing the sunken neck of the peninsula that connected the tiny island to the El Nido Archipelago.

The venture across to the island was uneventful on the outside, but Lynx was fraught with tension and nervousness as they broached the island's shore that connected to the peninsula and then across it to the other side, to the section of beach that he and Leena had shared for so many years. The sun had stained the sea in a brilliant white spattered with faint glimmers of the colors of the rainbow.

Harle shielded her eyes at the sudden brightness that assaulted them as they broke through the tree line. He stopped where the trees ended, and stared at the part of the beach he was standing on when all this began. She gazed up and down the shoreline as he stood there. As he remained rooted in place for a few moments more, she cleared her throat and looked at him.

"Well?"

He placed his hand over the pendant hidden beneath his armor. It was a slow, methodical pace in which he slipped from his reverie. There was no change in his expression as he moved forward, taking each step heavily as he approached this tale's Beginning. His breathing stilled as he came to a halt.

The sand began to pick up, not lifting as a breeze would carry the grains, but as if gravity was somehow negated around his feet. The small area of beach began to pulsate, rippling slowly outward from the soles of his boots before ending in a circle a pace away from where he stood. The color of the quaking area began to bleed out, darkening until it was a dark green. Tendrils rose from the blackish color, slowly changing its shade until it became an ominous indigo. Yet, before the skeins of energy could entwine themselves about Lynx's legs, they touched him and retreated back into the pool of energy, as if disliking the taste of his being. Slowly, the sand began to take shape again, grain by grain, before solidifying and taking on its natural beige hue. The ripples ceased and all was still.

Lynx opened his almond-shaped eyes and peered forward at the ocean. Harle stood behind him, unspeaking and quizzical. The catman turned around and looked at her. "I…I don't think it worked."

The gypsy looked about at their surroundings. "Nothing seems different."

He shook his head, his ears swaying in the breeze. "Not that. They look almost the same. It's that it stopped."

She made a crude sound in her throat. "If the gateway will not open, then…" The words stopped, incomplete, as she pondered her next words more carefully. "This is…interesting. But, I am surprised naught by this."

The look he gave her brought her immediately to silence. "That look is far too much like _he_ would look when he did not like what he was hearing. You are taking on much more of him than I care to admit." Waving her hand nonchalantly, she continued on. "At this point, we have to look at the facts. The missing piece to this world has been found. It seems as if Fate leaves you stranded, sir Lynx; you are an unwanted piece of this game."

His pawed hands clenched and unclenched uselessly. "There has to be another way." There was desperation in his tone, something seldom heard from the maw of Lynx.

"There is nothing we can do," Harle stated, not unkindly.

"Well, what have we here?" said a man's voice from down the beachfront.

Lynx and Harle spun around, sighting an elderly man walking with a cane, surrounded by a group of young male villagers wearing what passed for a uniform. They were all armed with swords or staves. All of the weapons were worn and battered.

The older man was the leader, his long hair and beard were white shocked with gray. He walked with a limp, supporting himself on his cane, but even so, he didn't lose his balance as he walked across the sand without support. The men curved behind him in a fanned crescent; they seemed trained, but only just.

"Radius," Lynx breathed, automatically responding to the man by turning his body to the side and standing erect, as if at attention while allowing the smallest target possible.

"Lovely," said the gypsy with an aspirated sigh. "The fun and excitement just will _not_ end."

Radius' hair fell about him, swaying in the breeze. His blue eyes were hard, as hard as his words. "One would think that ye', of all folks, Lynx, would not go walking so blithely through our lands after all ye' had done. Just disappearing for a year does not wash away the memories of yer injustice."

"Years?" echoed Lynx, twisting his head about to look down at the leather-clad woman. There was a new pain in his voice now.

He was drawing his attention back to the group of soldiers when they were charging forward; the old man had his hand extended out, at the end of his silent command. Lynx did not have his Swallow on hand; it was still thrust in the sand at the edge of the tree line. Through the turbulence inside of his mind, he moved with grace and ease as he twisted to the side to dodge the first swipe of a sword. He backed up as another came, narrowly missing being slashed open. If the young men had been better trained, they would have made a better work of him, but their inexperience gave him more than just an edge, despite the numbers.

"Armed or not, Lynx, I will have ye' killed." The callousness in the tone of Radius's voice was something that Lynx, as Serge, had never heard before. There was death in the vibrations of his voice and it made his hackles rise.

Suddenly, the demi-human realized that there was no way around it. He would have to fight these men, those that had been his friends and neighbors for almost all of his life. But they would not recognize him like this—there was no point in denying that fact. But that did not mean he had to be as ruthless as Lynx had been. He had assumed the body, and nothing more; his soul was still that of Serge from Arni.

As another slashing blow came from the closest villager, he maneuvered himself to the side and slapped the side of the blade with his forearm, throwing the attack wide. He thrust the base of his palm into the young man's chest, causing him to fall.

_Erick._

"Don't kill 'em," Lynx breathed as he moved back a step and to the side as he avoided the next attack from another man. A wayward thrust was made and Lynx took advantage, slamming his forearm down on the man's wrist, which jarred the sword loose. Upon losing his weapon, the villager tried to stagger away, but the catman booted him solidly in the ribs. The man collapsed as the air was forced painfully out of him.

_Johanneson._

Lynx had a torrent of thoughts racing through his head as Harle made a rude sound. "If I cannot kill them, then I shan't fight them." Her translucent body vanished, each ineffectual attack passing through where her body was.

Lynx barely noticed. A single realization had dawned on him. The demi-human was, indeed, much more than he was when he was Serge. With two men writhing on the sand nearby, he stood there, a fully trained warrior well beyond his seventeen years. The transition he had gone through had caused him to retain the natural instincts that the body held, and even _how_ to fight well, if not the actual memories behind the experiences.

He awaited the others as they came out of their shock of the disappearing woman. It was a slow process that gave him the time to walk casually towards his upright Swallow that was thrust in the sand. He just couldn't bring himself to move quickly. It was as if the casualness was a byproduct of his past, becoming one with his present self.

The catman yanked the Swallow free without fanfare and turned to face the others who were now extremely skeptical of him now that he was armed. It had a sobering effect on the last three if he was so easily able to dispatch two of them unarmed, how would they be able to handle him with a weapon in hand. Their fear was palpable.

"Have 'em stand down, Radius," Lynx said in a low tone. It was meant to be a quiet statement devoid of any animosity, but the sound of it was still a hissed whisper that carried the weight of his experience behind his words.

The sounds of the ocean and its wildlife were the only sounds for a moment as Lynx sized up the remaining four, and the elderly man contemplated the feline demi-human in a warrior's way.

Again, the catman spoke, "Have 'em get their friends," he gestured towards the two young men in pain, "and stand down. I don't wanna fight you."

There was something in his tone that caught Radius by surprise. The old man stroked his beard pensively. "Very well, they shall stand down, yet I shan't."

A soft sigh escaped Lynx's parted lips and he shook his head. "I don't wanna fight you, Radius, at all."

"Well, pup, that isn't really yer choice, now is it?"

If the barb was meant to invoke a response, the man failed.

"I accept," stated the catman.

Lynx circled back and paced the strip of beach he was standing on while Radius gave the command for the standing villagers to help their fallen comrades. _Giles_, _Jock_, and _Morgot_; he had grown up with all three young men. The demi-human stopped walking and looked at the villagers while they worked.

"Jock," began Lynx. The young villager revealed his shock as he looked at the feline in dismay. "I didn't want to hurt them."

The confused man helped drag the hurt villagers back down the beach, away from Lynx. When all of them were safely away from the pair, Radius stepped forward, shifting his cane in his hands so that he no longer supported his weight with it. It was positioned in a single hand, brandished like a weapon.

"I know not why ye' show remorse, but it shan't confuse me with yer diabolical ways," the old man stated coldly.

And then the elderly man burst forward, not waiting for a response. He swung his cane at Lynx's arm, letting the shaft slide through his hand before he gripped it again, gaining as much distance as he could. The catman leapt back to avoid the strike and had to jump back again as another swipe came in. Over and over, Lynx was forced back by the quick attacks. Age hadn't seemed to slow down the old man, who continued the barrage with spry movements.

Every now and again, Lynx sent his Swallow up to deflect a shot or to guide an attack away so that he may have the space to dodge again. The older man kept coming, halting only momentarily to regain his position when an attack separated them too much. And each time, Lynx failed to strike back. Confidence began to set in as Radius attacked, sensing that the advantage was his, but that suddenly changed.

Lynx allowed a strike to come through and he thrust his Swallow, two-handed, into the shaft of the cane before it made contact with his ribs. He then spun his weapon which clipped the cane, almost nearly jarring it loose from the old man's grip. It was proof of his previous profession, how he maintained his handhold and then narrowly dodged the thrusting swipe from the catman.

Now each attack from the old man was met with one from the demi-human, and they began to exchange blows, both being forced into a mixture of offensive and defensive moves. They were grunting and panting with exertion after a few moments, and were breathing heavily when they broke away to circle each other, waiting for an opening to strike. Radius jumped forward, swinging his cane in a horizontal arc, which Lynx lithely avoided by back-stepping. As the old man caught the cane's base with his other hand, he swung again, but the cane separated into two pieces, elongating out with a glimmer of steel.

A yelp of surprise came from Lynx as he suddenly staggered, the tip of the now-exposed sword slicing into his leather breastplate. A tired, but menacing grin spread itself onto Radius's bearded face. If he was going to make a remark, he held back, as he was still breathing heavily. Now the Arni elder wielded two weapons; a hilt-less sword adorned one hand, while the casing of the cane was held in the other, like a club.

Lynx repositioned himself, keeping the forward tip of the Swallow pointed towards the ground, and turning to his side to offer less of his body as a target. The catman stepped forward as he swung the shell-blade of the Swallow up, which the old man deflected with the casing. Radius then aimed his sword in a horizontal strike. The blade was pushed back when Lynx's follow-through with his swipe.

The edges of the shells on the Swallow were finely sharpened, and as the blade went up under the arm of old man, Lynx knew full well—as did Radius—that the momentum would severe the old man's arm. But the catman shifted his Swallow so that the flat of the shell pushed the old Deva's arm up, stressing the muscles without amputating his limb. The redirect forced an opening that Lynx had been looking for, so he kicked the human low in the stomach, causing him to double over as he slid back from the impact. On the follow-through, Lynx smacked Radius soundly in the forehead with the flat end of the other end of the Swallow.

The sudden blows felled Radius, sending him sprawling onto his back. Lynx approached him, and aimed the tip of a swallow towards the upper chest of the ex-Deva as he lay there in the sand.

"Yield," the catman breathed.

There was confusion in the old man's eyes, quickly replacing his dissipating fear. Through his ragged breathing, he stared at the quasi-human being that had a name but was very different in bearing and intention than what was simply renowned. Swallowing, he nodded curtly, unafraid of being cut because the Swallow was positioned to deter, not threaten.

With the show of surrender, the catman stepped back and lowered his weapon. The sound of delicate applause filled the air with Harle's spritely laughter.

20


End file.
